Lying Heart
by nine miles to go
Summary: Peter and his struggles to stay away from Gwen, post Movie-verse for The Amazing Spider-Man. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing from Spiderman, etc, etc, even though I'm going to marry Andrew Garfield.

I haven't been on fanfiction for awhile, so I'm stretching my toesies and dipping them back into the water here. This is movie-verse, The Amazing Spiderman. The story takes place in the aftermath of the first movie.

* * *

**Lying Heart**

_Chapter One _

Sometimes Peter watches her from her bedroom window. Far enough away that he couldn't possibly be seen, but he can still make out the shape of her, leaning backwards in her chair in front of her computer, tapping a pencil on the desk, existing in a separate world behind a pane of glass.

He's too far to see her face, which is probably for the best. He doesn't want to see the pain in her eyes or the nervous habit she has developed of biting her lip. He doesn't want to see the sunken grief around the corners of her eyes or the paleness of her skin. But more importantly, he doesn't want her to look up and see him, see the traitorous glint in his eyes, and know that he still cares.

It's the voice of the captain he hears before he can even think of moving another inch forward from the ledge he so frequently perches himself on.

He can close his eyes and picture it so easily—one swoop, just a few fragile seconds in the air and he would land at her window with a grace he didn't possess. She would be working so diligently that she wouldn't even notice his shadow cross the walls of her bedroom. Softly, he would knock on the window and she would startle, but she would know it was him before she let herself turn around.

She'd take her time before she met his eyes. Doleful, wide, full of promise. He could drink in her eyes and live off them alone. She would look away, deny him for a moment, but then she would rise from her desk and gently ease the window open.

He'd say something clever here. Something sweet, something short, something that would forgive the months he'd spent pining for her from afar, the months he spent letting her cry into her pillow and in the locker room and at the subway station waiting for a train. She would light up at his words and just a hint of a smile would play at her lips. She'd barb him. She was exceptional at that. But she'd step aside, and let him into the bedroom, and they'd take each other in, rememorizing every pore on the other's face as if it were their first and last moment left in the world.

He would lean forward ever-so-slightly. Gage her reaction. She wouldn't flinch; she wouldn't look at him in disgust, or worse, not look at him at all; she would lean forward ever-so-slightly herself, slowly bridging the gap, until their lips were mere centimeters apart and he could smell cinnamon gum and hear the sound of her breath and the beating of his own heart and then—

And then.

Then he hears the captain's dying words. Like a noose, they take hold of him and he suffocates there on his perch, overlooking a crowded, bustling city he thinks he might just fall into; but then he remembers that even if he falls in this breath-stealing, agonizing moment, he won't die. He can't.

Because has a city to protect. Because he has so many wrongs to correct in such a short lifetime. Because seeing her for just these few moments every day is enough reason to live for as long as he possibly can.

Because he knows that she still loves him. Otherwise she wouldn't leave the blinds up all through the day and night.

* * *

Peter doesn't really need sleep.

He reasons it's a perk of his new abilities, even though he also knows he couldn't sleep if he tried. His head hits the pillow and he is instantly unbearably restless. It's as if every sound of the city threatens to swallow him whole; he imagines faraway screams and ambulance sirens and even though he knows they're not real, they could be. He can't ignore the possibility, the idea that he could prevent someone's suffering while he lays here uselessly.

His eyes snap open, his hands grapple for the radio dial, and by the time a call for all available units comes crackling through, he is already in full gear and headed toward the window. He glances back at Uncle Ben's picture before he leaves and imagines that wherever he is, he is proud.

"You look terrible," Aunt May says most mornings.

Breakfast is always the same, if Peter makes it to breakfast at all. Sometimes he only just manages to slip back into the house with enough time to pull on his street clothes, grab his backpack, and run down the stairs to give his aunt a quick kiss good-bye.

If he makes it to breakfast, where she will inevitably pry, he gives her one of his most endearing cheesy smiles. His lips feel like overstretched rubber bands. "Thanks," he says cheekily.

"What happened to your eye?"

"Hm?"

"Your eye, Peter."

Peter pretends his mouth is too full of food, and laboriously chews while he thinks of an acceptable answer. "Skateboarding," he says, because he hasn't used that excuse in at least a week.

"You just hurt yourself doing that yesterday."

Or maybe not.

"I like boarding," he says into his cereal.

Aunt May touches his cheek. Peter winces; for all his unthinkably quick reflexes, he didn't see it coming. He looks into his aunt's worried eyes. "Peter," she says, and for a split second he is so certain that she knows everything, so sure that he feels his stomach sinking into his chair.

But then she takes her hand away, and looks down at the table.

"I've gotta get to class," says Peter.

His hand's on the doorknob when Aunt May speaks again. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

He can feel her eyes burning into the back of his neck, but he doesn't turn around.

"Be careful."

* * *

Peter stays late after school in the chemistry lab to finish an alternate assignment for a lab he missed. A half hour stretches by. He has made some progress, and now he just has to wait a few minutes to observe the chemicals reacting so he can record it and write a few pages of reflection questions.

He wakes up some time later to the sound of voices in the hallway.

"Shit," he says under his breath. Whatever reaction he was supposed to watch he has long since missed; the liquid in his beakers is unmoving and useless. He puts his head back down on his desk in frustration.

"It's Friday night. Friday night down at that bowling alley with the green neon sign, you know where that is, right?"

"Yes, yes I do, but Richard …"

Peter's head flies up from the desk so fast that he nearly knocks all his materials over. It's Gwen's voice on the other side of the half-open door—Gwen, and some guy named Richard. Some guy named Richard who Peter suddenly irrationally loathes with every bone in his body.

"You're busy Friday? C'mon, Gwen. It's Friday. You can't study _all _the time."

This Richard, his voice is friendly and light and teasing. It makes Peter sick. He imagines Gwen on the other side of the door, blushing; Gwen, on the other side of the door, shuffling her feet bashfully; Gwen, on the other side of the door, deciding to leave Peter behind at last.

"I'm sorry, Richard," says Gwen instead. "It's just … not a good time for me right now."

Peter's heart shouldn't be soaring out of his chest with relief, but it is. He almost laughs out loud.

"I understand," says Richard, sounding very much like a gentleman. "But Gwen. When it is a good time … let me know. Okay?"

Peter doesn't hear Gwen's response, but he imagines it was either a nod or a mouthed "okay", because they both shuffle away without another word. He listens until her footsteps are well out of the range of normal human hearing, listens to her open her locker, grab her books, and leave; listens until he can't hear anything but his foot tapping against the tile floor and the Captain Stacy's dying words rattling between his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lying Heart**

_Chapter Two _

* * *

That night Peter is scaling buildings, unconsciously headed toward Gwen's, when the unthinkable happens: he runs out of biocable webs. He raises his arm, anticipating the shift in the wind and the jerk at his core that always comes with another slinging, but nothing happens.

At first he thinks he is dreaming. He is not this stupid, and besides that, a warning light goes on when he's running low. He is _not this stupid_.

He is also falling, and very quickly at that.

"Ohhh, no. Oh, jesus. Shit, shit, _shit_," he mutters. The street is approaching at an alarming rate. People are looking up, shouting, pointing. He can practically see their faces, he's so close to the ground. He flails, feeling foolish, feeling humiliated, but oddly not feeling at all afraid.

He lands with an unforgiving thunk on someone's fire escape.

For an indiscernible amount of time he is stunned. He lays there, the wind knocked out of him, staring up at the sky. Thinks about how it's a shame that nobody can see the stars in New York. Wiggles his fingers to make sure they're still working. Hears sirens in the distance, and knows without any doubt that they are approaching because they are after him.

A light flashes in his face. For a moment he thinks he's been caught, but then he realizes it's a camera. One of the building's residents has taken a picture of him sprawled out here like an idiot, and he can't even move to do anything about it.

He opens his mouth to say something, to tell them to quit, but he still can't quite breathe. That is, until he feels a hand touch his mask—suddenly the air comes rushing back, and he throws himself to his feet, knocking the stranger off balance and hurtling their camera off the fire escape in the process.

"Aw, screw you, man," the stranger complains. There are cop cars below them now. The stranger grabs his arm and yells, "I got him! He's up here!"

Peter wrenches his arm out of the man's grasp. The lights below him are so bright and blinding that he is completely disoriented for a moment. His first reflex is to shoot a web at the nearest tall building, but then he remembers how he got into this mess in the first place. He backs up on the fire escape to give himself a few steps' worth of a running jump. The police yell something at him from a megaphone. Peter hurls himself forward with all the strength he has left and barely makes it to the building on the other side, then scrambles up as fast as he can while the bullets kick the brick wall all around him.

He makes it to the roof and runs and jumps until he finds an empty alley. Then he hides in the darkness like a coward for hours. His mind is racing, and sitting still in the dark for so long is sheer torture knowing he could be out on the streets, so he occupies himself with thoughts of Gwen. He wonders what she's doing now. He wonders if she thinks of him often. He wonders if she'll go bowling with Richard, if not this week then the week after that, or the week after that. He wonders about her until it feels like she has burned a hole into his brain.

When he finally gets up his whole body is aching, in places he wasn't even aware existed. He finds some old clothes in a dumpster and changes into them, knowing that there's no way he'll be scaling any buildings to get home tonight. He sneaks in around three in the morning, peels off the old clothes and throws them away, then lays on his bed sleeplessly, feeling the rest of the ache creep into his bones until the morning light.

* * *

"Peter?"

He must have fallen asleep, because he awakens with a painful jolt to the sound of Aunt May banging on his locked door and turning the knob frantically.

"Peter? _Peter,_ are you in there?"

"I—I, yes, yes Aunt May," he manages. He checks the time. It's past eight.

"Are you alright?"

"1—" Oh, God. He can't get up. "Just. Just a second, Aunt May."

"Open the door," she pleads.

He barely manages to suppress a groan, trying to peel his unwilling body off the mattress. Just raising his head feels like pushing a wall of bricks forward. Little by little he manages to hoist himself up, swinging his legs to the floor, balancing himself on the bed stand until he has enough balance to walk.

"Peter?"

"Coming," he says, as evenly as he possibly can.

He unlocks the door and she swings it open, tears in her eyes. "Peter," she says, shuffling in the doorway, unsure what to do with herself. She looks him up and down, raises her arms as if to embrace him and then thinks the better of it.

"I'm, um," he says, his entire face turning red with the effort to lie, "I'm just feeling a bit under the weather today …"

"Yes, yes, of course, I see," she frets, stepping past him to walk into his room. "You lay down."

"I'm sorry I overslept," he says. It occurs to him that her reaction was way over the top for him simply sleeping in too late, and yet again he feels the nagging suspicion that she knows something—but how could she, when he was so careful not to leave any traces around the house? Besides, even if she knew he was Spiderman, she couldn't have known about the fall last night. The only picture was destroyed, and the police would never have released details like that.

She purses her lips. "You hardly ever miss any school, one day won't hurt you."

He doesn't mention that he's falling behind in most of his classes. She fidgets nervously, smoothing the covers over him, patting his hair, staring at him for too long.

"You're sure you'll be alright here by yourself all day?" she asks.

He nods as enthusiastically as he can manage. "I'll be fine, Aunt May, I'm sure it's just a 24 hour thing."

She stares at him hard, but after a few moments she nods. "You're probably right," she says quietly. She says she'll bring him up breakfast, but he falls asleep again, waking up to find cold toast and a glass of milk on his bed stand. He stares at it for a moment, then rolls over and goes back to sleep.

* * *

Around eleven he finally wakes up, starving and alert. He grabs the toast and wolfs it down, wondering how long it's been since he has eaten. He walks down the stairs still in his boxers, the ache in his body somewhat dulled, and proceeds to eat anything within reach. He makes it to the table with an armload of food when he sees the headline to the local section of the paper laid out on display: _Spiderman plummets from the sky! Poser or the real thing? _

Peter freezes in his seat.

The article goes on to quote all too many witnesses to his embarrassing incident, and even includes the photo that he thought was destroyed of him laying on the fire escape. He was right that there were no quotes from the police, but everyone else had plenty of things to say. There was, of course, speculation as to whether he was the "real" Spiderman, as apparently less-abled posers were patrolling the streets dressed as him for the thrill of it. People were discouraging the dangerous phenomenon, and while Peter agrees, he is all the more humiliated by the spectacle. He'd made such an idiot of himself that _other_ people couldn't even believe it.

He pushes the paper away from him, thinking of Aunt May's reaction this morning. He hopes that if she knows the truth, she never says anything. He also knows that this means he needs to move out of this house as soon as he graduates. He hates to worry her, but more than that, he hates to put her in harm's way. And if he ever does anything as stupid as he did last night, it will only be a matter of time before his enemies can put a name to the face behind the mask.

He gets to school in time for fifth period. He's early for once, sliding into his seat before even most of the class has arrived. His teacher raises an eyebrow at him and he smirks a bit at her surprise.

The smirk slides off his face when he sees Gwen stop short in the doorway. She stares at him, looking slightly taken aback. The moment only lasts for a second. Then she walks through the room, breezing past him to sit down. Peter looks down at his notebook, pretending to concentrate on an empty page.

"You missed second period."

She's talking to him. He's not sure whether or not he should turn around, but he's turning around before he can really even think about it. The instant he does he regrets it. Her posture is tense, her jaw set angrily.

"Under the weather," he mumbles.

Gwen's expression clearly indicates that she doesn't buy it. "What the hell happened last night?"

Peter can feel the tips of his ears burning. "I don't know."

"You don't _know—_?"

"I hope you've already opened your lab guides to page 74, we're running a bit behind this week," says the teacher, pointedly looking at Peter and Gwen. "Find your partners and get started."

Gwen turns away and so does Peter. When fifth period ends she already has her books in hand. She abruptly gets out of her seat, looks at him and says, "You are not invincible."

Peter opens his mouth to say something, but she walks away before he can.

* * *

Thanks for all the awesome reviews, guys! You made my day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Lying Heart**

_Chapter Three_

* * *

It's his photography teacher who calls Peter into his office before the rest of his teachers notice his grades slipping.

"You're a very talented photographer, Peter," Mr. Carter says to him from across his wide wooden desk.

Peter stares at some sort of art deco pattern that is framed on the man's desk. "Thank you," he says, because it's an appropriate response, even though he's fully aware that he's about to be chewed out.

Just as he suspects, Mr. Carter leans forward in a manner that Peter supposes is meant to intimidate him and says, "You're a very talented photographer, which is why, I'm sure, you know that it makes it that much harder for me to tolerate the less than impressive work you've been turning in the past few weeks."

Peter bites his lip. Scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah," he says stupidly.

"Now, I know you've had a rough year," Mr. Carter starts.

Peter looks up at him in alarm, trying to search his eyes for meaning.

"Losing your uncle so unexpectedly," Mr. Carter continues, keeping his eyes level. "I know that you're probably still struggling with that."

Peter blinks at him. Hearing someone say that his uncle is dead still sounds kind of surreal. He and his Aunt May almost never talk about him, and Peter spends so much time trying to live up to his words that he can almost trick himself into thinking Ben is still alive. Peter lives his life as if his uncle still watches his every move.

Mr. Carter is waiting for a response. "Yeah," Peter says again, at a loss for what else to say.

"But you show a lot of promise. I'd hate to see you waste your potential in your last few months here," says Mr. Carter. He looks at Peter thoughtfully. "Have you made any plans for college yet?"

Peter almost laughs. "Um, no," he says honestly.

"I didn't think so." Mr. Carter starts rummaging through his desk. He pulls out a few papers. "Did you know that there are a lot of scholarships in this city for photography students?"

"No," Peter says, unable to help his eyebrows from furrowing. He loves photography, but he has never really considered studying it. Sure, he has entertained the idea of college, but he always thought he'd end up studying something like biology or engineering, something solid and dependable and normal. "What kind of scholarships? Do you think I could get one?"

"I do," says Mr. Carter, "but not at the skill level you've been demonstrating these past few months."

Peter nods and says, "But you think—"

"Here." Mr. Carter pushes the papers toward Peter, and he sees that it's a scholarship application, outlining all the requirements and formatting rules for submitting a portfolio for consideration at Empire State University. "It's the first time they're offering this scholarship. Some rich alum is offering a full ride to the photography program, and of all my graduating students I thought of you."

Peter doesn't know what to say. He has never really considered his photos that worthy of attention, and in truth hasn't even thought of taking out his camera for the longest time. But suddenly his fingers are tingling at the notion. His head is spinning with a hundred ideas. He has literally crawled over almost every inch of this city, and until now he hasn't even considered the possibility of taking his camera with him, of capturing pieces of the world that he has seen.

"Wow," he manages. "Thanks for thinking of me."

"You'll have to work hard. The deadline is in a few weeks. You'll have to apply through the school, as well."

"Yeah, yeah," Peter says enthusiastically, still skimming the papers in his hand. "This looks really cool." He has no idea where he'll get the money to apply, but he decides he'll find a way. He grins up at Mr. Carter, and it's the first time it feels natural in months. "Thanks for this."

"Earn it, Peter. You have a midterm project coming up. I'd better be impressed."

"You will be," says Peter, carefully folding the papers and sticking them between the pages of one of his textbooks. He touches his camera, forgotten at the bottom of his backpack, and it's like meeting a long lost friend.

* * *

The meeting with Mr. Carter inspires Peter. He goes home and cleans his room, cleans the kitchen, vacuums the floors. He goes out to the grocery store and restocks on everything. He makes Aunt May's favorite rosemary chicken, or at least attempts it to the best of his ability, and even manages not to burn the oven rolls. His timing is perfect—she arrives just as he finishes setting the table.

"Peter," she says, taking in the spread. "Oh my—did you do this all yourself?"

He nods, feeling proud of himself. "Surprise! I'm not completely inept in the kitchen after all," he quips.

She gives him a hug, and this time it's not one of her please-be-careful hugs or her thank-god-you're-home hugs, but a real, genuine hug, the kind she used to give before this whole mess started. He knows because her shoulders aren't tensing up, because she doesn't linger as if she's trying to hold him together, to keep him as long as he'll let her.

They share a normal meal together. She tells him about work, about the younger women there who are always gossiping and crying to her for help with their love lives. He tells her about the scholarship and how he's thinking about getting up early on Saturday to capture New York before most of the city wakes up. She tells him the chicken is fantastic, and he tells her not to lie, even though it's much better than he expected.

"We should rent a movie," says Aunt May as they're clearing up the dishes. "Remember when you were little, and we'd rent a movie and eat cookie dough on Fridays?"

"Yeah," he says, remembering their little tradition. Uncle Ben usually worked late on Friday nights, and Aunt May would let him eat cookie dough and watch PG 13 rated movies if he promised not to tell. "You said you wanted to watch that movie with what's-his-face in it, right? Because I saw it on RedBox down the street, I can go grab it."

Aunt May smiles. "That sounds lovely."

Peter pulls his bike out of the side of the house, dusts a few webs off of it, and heads down to the drugstore a few blocks away. He hasn't ridden his bike in ages. He remembers an age where flying down a hill on his bike was the most reckless thing he could think of. He would pedal and pedal with all his might until the hill was so steep and the wheels were going so fast that his legs couldn't keep up, and then he'd let go of the pedals and fly.

Now riding his bike seems so familiar and safe. He dodges the pedestrians and some light traffic and thinks of Aunt May, how she must be glad to have an excuse to keep him home for part of tonight. It will probably be past ten by the time it's over. Enough time for her to console herself that he'll stay in, but not so long that Peter can't make a difference on the streets tonight.

It takes him a few minutes to find the movie Aunt May wants. The machine spits it out and somebody behind him says, "I didn't peg you for the romantic comedy type, Parker. Hot date tonight?"

Peter turns around and sees a classmate of his he recognizes from more than a few classes over the years, but can't remember the name of. "What can I say? Ryan Gosling's a real hunk."

The classmate laughs. Before Peter can explain that he's watching it with his aunt, an all to familiar voice calls from the aisle over.

"Richard, I found the—"

Gwen stops short when she sees Peter, still holding a bag of Twizzlers in her hands. "Peter," she says. Her eyes are wide and stuck on him. "Hey."

"Oh, good, you found them. Here," says Richard, taking them from her. "You got the movie, I'll buy the snacks."

She doesn't say anything to Richard, just lets him take the candy and stares at the floor.

"It's not a date," she says.

"I don't care," says Peter, surprising himself with how petulant he sounds. He takes a breath. "I mean. I'm sorry. I didn't meant it like that."

"It's just a bunch of us hanging out at Richard's place," says Gwen.

Somehow Peter doubts that, and if it is, he is sure that Richard only invited everyone as an excuse to hang out with Gwen. He has to hand it to the guy. He's doing an excellent job of worming his way into Gwen's life.

"Have fun," he says, reminding himself not to tense his fists, because he will snap the DVD in a second. He takes another breath and puts it in his pocket, where he knows it will be safer.

Gwen nods politely. "What are you up to tonight?"

"Nothing," he lies. He doesn't want to tell her anything. He wants her to wonder, wants her to feel as tortured as he does in this moment, and he can't think of one rational reason why. It isn't her fault they're not together, and she should have the freedom to do whatever she wants without him being this unsettled and angry. He understands that. But it doesn't do a damn thing to change the way he feels.

"Why don't you come over, too?" asks Richard, joining them. The poor guy is completely oblivious to the tension. "We've got plenty of room for one more."

Peter forces himself to smile. "Some other time, maybe."

"Sure thing, man. You ready, Gwen?"

Gwen nods. "Bye, Peter," she says.

Peter raises his hand half-heartedly to acknowledge her leaving. He walks outside a few moments later to collect his bike. He steals a glance down the block and sees that Richard is now holding Gwen's hand, and that the two of them look sickeningly sweet together, fading into a beautiful New York sunset as they get further away.

He walks his bike back. He knows if he tries to ride it now, he'll break something for sure.

* * *

Ahhhh, thanks for all the reviews, guys! It's quite inspiring. I'll keep trying to churn them out. I'm working full time for the summer but the good news is that means there's no pesky homework to stop me. Anyway, bear with me for all the Peter x Gwen drama ... I'm hoping it'll be worth the wait ;).


	4. Chapter 4

**Lying Heart**

_Chapter Four_

* * *

Over the next month, Peter's life is a blur of picture taking, fighting crime, and trying to catch up on schoolwork. He even gets a job walking some woman's dog in the afternoons, which eventually turns into her whole neighborhood's dogs, and Peter makes enough money to pay for his application easily.

The month goes by both agonizingly slowly and astonishingly quick. Most nights he's out on the streets tuned into the police radio frequency on his cell phone. If there's not much going on, he'll try and find something worth taking pictures of. A lot of his portfolio for the scholarship are pictures taken at night, from strange angles—not so strange that they can't be explained, but enough to be a unique perspective. He takes pictures of people working night shifts, of people waiting at the bus stop, of confused tourists pouring over maps. Once he took a picture of himself soaring from the momentum of a web—he knows he won't include it, but it still turned out pretty nice.

He stays after school most days and manages to pull all of his grades back up to passing. He isn't too worried because he has better grades in years past to fall back on, and his GPA isn't too permanently damaged.

Aunt May stops worrying so much. It's partially because there's not much to worry about. November is a calm month for New York that year. There are carjackings and robberies and a few attempted assaults and kidnappings, but no major threats that Peter can't handle alone. The NYPD even backs up on him a little bit; they only try to shoot at him like three times, as opposed to the usual nightly ordeal he had with them in the past.

The only loose end is Gwen. Peter does everything in his power to avoid her. He switches his schedule mid-semester, which is virtually unheard of, but the woman in the front office knows that his uncle died and pulls some sympathy strings. Now he has no classes with Gwen, and he takes diligent care not to run into her in hallways or on the street.

Still, he can't help himself when night falls. At least once a week he finds himself lingering in her neighborhood, drawn to the ledge across her street where he has a perfect view of her. She is always up late, studying or surfing the web. He watches her until his chest aches, and then he tears off into the night.

Gwen aside, his life finally seems manageable. He has fallen into a routine he can keep up with. His teachers are happy. His portfolio is almost finished. He's making a good chunk of change walking dogs. Not to mention, it's almost the holidays, and Peter has always loved Christmas. For the first time since his uncle's death, things are decidedly looking up.

Then December comes, and everything changes again.

* * *

It starts with a call on the police frequency, calling all available units to the George Washington Bridge. There is an "unidentified technological threat". Peter immediately starts slinging in that direction, aware that it will take him at least fifteen minutes. He spends most of it thinking of his last encounter with a threat on the bridge, but he knows whatever this is, it can't be as bad as the Lizard.

He is, as usual, wrong.

Whatever this "unidentified technological threat" is, it's enormous, and it's extremely accurate. To Peter's horror, almost half of the officers called to the scene are down by the time he arrives. People are still crushing into each other, running off the bridge. Peter has no idea how many cars are already in the water, but he immediately scans up and down, looking for the ones that are dangling and deciding it's more important to check on those first before addressing what appears to be a giant, extremely angry robot attacking the NYPD.

Once he saves three cars full of people from meeting their end, he realizes he cannot ignore the unidentified technological threat anymore, because it is advancing on him. It is easily nine feet tall, and its arm span was similarly vast. Peter backs up involuntarily into an abandoned car, trying to get some idea of what it is. It is human in shape, but grotesque, filled to the gills with wiring and weapons and flashing lights.

Peter wonders if it has a weakness. But before he can wonder much more, it shoots at him.

He darts out of the way, and sees the massive steaming hole the shot leaves in the car behind him. "Holy crap," he mutters, slinging a web upward toward the top of the bridge and propelling himself upward.

This does not seem to impede its aim. It shoots at him again, and Peter barely dodges; it shoots at him a third time, and it grazes his left shin, burning unlike anything he's ever felt before. He looks down, just for a second, and sees almost thirty dead officers below him.

He has no time to digest his horror. The robot has turned its back on him, or so it seems—then Peter realizes it is hovering in the air, flying upward, flying _toward him_.

Without thinking he starts shooting webs as fast as he can, hoping he'll hit anything to deter it. He shoots and shoots in vain, trying to tie its legs together, trying to hit obvious exposed mechanisms, _anything_. His heart is pounding between his ears like a drum as it advances, faster by the second.

When it is right above him, he slings a web onto it and tries to propel himself onto its back. It anticipates him, shooting again and just barely missing him, but Peter manages to climb on anyway. With all of his strength he bashes its head, which crumples easily under his fist, but does nothing to stop it from functioning. Peter panics. Of course the mechanism to stop it wouldn't be in its head—that was way too obvious. He settles for trying to bash in the robot's feet, thinking it will at least stop its ability to fly.

It seems to be fueled by some sort of jet pack. Peter's hands burn as he thrashes at them and gets caught in whatever heat it is spitting out. After a few panicked seconds, though, it seems to work; the robot falters, and Peter keeps whaling at it until he feels them both falling through the air, plummeting toward the water.

The robot does something unexpected then, and reaches its arm around and—_hugs_ him? Bu then Peter realizes in absolute terror that it is trapping him, holding him so that he can't get out of the water, either. Peter thrashes with all of his strength and barely budges the thing's grasp on him. They hit the water and Peter sucks in a breath of water, feels it entering his lungs.

Oh, God, no. He's not going to drown here like some kind of rat. He thrashes again as they plummet further downward, into the darkness, into the cold. The edges of his vision are going black. He isn't going to make it.

_You are not invincible._

He sees her face, then, as if she is lighting up the dark abyss. With one final shove, he frees himself.

It takes forever to find the surface, and he's not entirely sure he's even conscious for the entire journey back up. For a long time he just lays there, floating in the water, choking. Even when he reaches air it takes forever to find it, the water still filling his lungs. In a gut wrenching moment he finally coughs it all up and sucks in the most painful, glorious breath he has ever breathed.

Whatever that thing is that attacked them, it doesn't come back up, at least not in the ten minutes that Peter floats there. His lungs are burning. It's the most beautiful feeling in the world.

After awhile, when he's sure the robot-creature will not resurface, Peter swims to a pillar of the bridge, and propels himself upward. He slowly crawls under the belly of the bridge until he reaches Manhattan, and then he darts through alleys until he finally gets home.

He is finished for the night. He doesn't want to think about the dead men on the bridge, or the people he might have failed to save by arriving too late. He knows he did everything he could, and knows that it's still not enough.

For Aunt May's benefit, he noisily goes down to the kitchen and fixes himself a cup of tea. As he predicted, she wanders down and says, "Why are you up so late?"

He shrugs. "Want some tea?" he croaks.

She stares at him, perplexed. "No, thanks," she says.

"I just wanted a cup before I turned in for the night," says Peter.

Aunt May frowns. "You sound sick or something, what happened to your voice?"

"Puberty."

She doesn't laugh, but a small smile appears on her face. "Don't stay up too late," she chides him. "And be a little quieter, would you? It sounds like there was a horse down here."

Peter salutes her in understanding, then watches her climb back up the stairs. He knows he had to do this because the first thing she will see in the morning is a headline about the robot and Spiderman's involvement, and he doesn't want to scare her like last time. It's worth disturbing her sleep knowing she'll have some peace of mind in the morning.

* * *

Oh my god, your guys' reviews just totally blow me away. It's pretty much restored my will to live through nine hour shifts of crying babies at the daycare. Seriously. I wish I could respond to all of you, because I'm so happy to get all this feedback, I'm just basically walking around with my cell phone and grinning like an idiot every time I get an email. Thank you so much for making my week!

Sorry there wasn't much Gwen in this chapter-I promise I have lots of big plans for this story coming into play soon, but I'm kind of easing into it for now. My goal is to try to get one chapter up every day. Which should be fine, since I pretty much have no life when work is over. Woohoo!


	5. Chapter 5

**Lying Heart**

_Chapter Five_

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning, the wound on his shin where the robot grazed him isn't even near healed. It stings when he touches it. It occurs to him that he should have cleaned it last night, but he assumed that as always it would heal up on its own. He shoves his leg unceremoniously into the sink and washes it out, cringing. It's small, but deep. He gives it one last glance before taping some gauze to it haphazardly. It was probably for the best that he didn't want to go to school to be a doctor.

He walks down to breakfast early, to preempt Aunt May reading the paper, but she's already down there reading it, her mouth wide open.

"Morning," Peter says loudly. His voice is back, at the very least.

Aunt May startles in her seat. "Peter," she says. She looks him up and down the way she does all too often. He must have passed her test, because her shoulders slump a bit and she says, "I was going to make French toast."

"I'll get the coffee pot started," he offers.

Aunt May folds up the paper carefully. "You heard about the, uh. The robot thing?"

Peter nods. "Saw something about it on my computer this morning," he says. "Wild, huh?"

"Scary," Aunt May says. "I can't even imagine. Twenty six officers down. But did you know there were no civilian deaths?"

Peter looks up in surprise. "Really?"

Aunt May is smiling tiredly. "Apparently Spiderman swooped in and saved them all."

Peter doesn't smile. How can he, when there are twenty six good men dead?

"Good for him," he says, excusing himself from the table. He stumbles a little bit and almost knocks over his plate. "Woops," he says reflexively. It strikes him as a more than a little odd. He hasn't done much stumbling since the crazy superhuman powers kicked in. He doesn't think much more of it, though. "See you tonight."

"Don't forget your coat!"

SSSSSSSSSSS

Peter knows for sure something is off while he's boarding to school. For the life of him he can't seem to control the direction of the board. After several near misses with cars and other people on the street, he gives up and carries it. He ends up a few minutes late to school. His calculus teacher is not impressed.

He trips on his way to his desk.

"Not quite awake yet, Mr. Parker?" asks his teacher.

Peter blinks. "I'm late," he says stupidly. His tongue feels kind of spongy in his mouth. The class snickers and Peter looks around at their faces, of kids he's gone to school with ever since he can remember, and he wonders what on earth is so funny.

"I'm aware," his teacher says wryly. "Now can you please take your seat."

For a moment Peter just stands there. He can't remember where he's supposed to sit. Are the seats assigned in this class? Where does he normally sit?

"Mr. Parker," the teacher says warningly.

More snickers.

"I'm sorry," says Peter, sliding into an empty desk. Nobody says anything, so he figures it's okay to sit here. He would be more concerned with his faulty memory, but it suddenly occurs to him just how crazy mechanical pencils are. He clicks his a few times, watching the lead come out. Who even _thought _of this? He slides the lead back in and it crunches beneath his fingers, flicking in some other direction.

"Peter."

He looks up. His teacher is standing over his desk, inches away from him.

"Yeah?"

She furrows her brow at him. "Class finished two minutes ago."

"Oh." He should collect his books. He stares at his desk and sees that he never took any out in the first place.

"Are you feeling alright? Do you need to see the nurse?"

"I'm fine," Peter assures her. In fact, he's feeling pretty good. His muscles feel light and floaty. The colors seem brighter. He can see sunshine peeking in through the window. It's Christmas in three weeks. "I'm great," he says, smiling wide.

"Alright," she says, unconvinced. "Hurry before you're late to class again."

Peter grabs his backpack and his board and walks into the hallway. It's packed to the gills with other students. He grins and waves at people he recognizes and people he doesn't. He isn't quite sure where he's going. Is school out yet? Is he supposed to go to a class? The school is so huge. How is he supposed to check all the rooms to find the one he's supposed to be in?

"C'mon, man, you're so late for Spanish."

Someone tugs at his arm. He knows this person. "Okay," he says agreeably. Then he leans over to cough into his sleeve. He doesn't know how long he coughs for, but it seems like it goes on forever. He coughs and coughs and coughs, but it doesn't feel so bad, just kind of irritating, because now he can't really breathe or go anywhere.

"Jesus, man, what's wrong with you?" his friend asks, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"I just." Peter laughs. "I don't know."

"Go to the nurse," his friend commands, turning him around and pointing him in a different direction. "I'm late. I'll see you later."

Peter walks. At some point he finds outside. It's cold out, the sharp sting of a breeze hitting his face. He leans over and coughs again, coughs until his body doubles over, coughs until he's so dizzy that it feels like he's on an amusement park ride. He smiles. He hasn't been to Coney Island in _forever._ Maybe he'll go now.

He doesn't make it very far. The world is swaying. Maybe he's already at Coney Island. Maybe he'll just sit for awhile. He finds a nice brick wall and slumps there for a bit, breathing in, breathing out, waiting for Christmas.

He coughs again, and this time there's blood. Red on his green jacket. It practically _is _Christmas.

"Peter?"

His head's too heavy to look up, but that voice sounds like an angel, and he's fairly certain he must be dead.

"Peter. Oh, God."

Someone grabs his face and forces him to look up. It's Gwen. She looks very upset, but Peter grins sloppily at her. She looks so beautiful with the sunlight in her hair, and he tells her so, but she either doesn't hear or doesn't care.

"Can you get up?" she asks. She tries to yank him up by his arms and he laughs, and then coughs, and blood splatters onto his lap. "Peter, try and get up, we have to get to my car."

"I'm trying, I promise," he says, and between the two of them he manages to get back on his feet. "Is that a new necklace?" he asks. "It looks very nice on you."

"Yes," she says distractedly. "But focus, Peter. We're walking to my car."

"You have a car?"

"Yes. It's this way. Come on."

"God, you smell nice."

She doesn't say anything. Peter wonders if any of this is real. He wants to kiss her, but he knows better. Dream or reality, he's not allowed to cross that line, even though he can't remember why in the first place. He loves Gwen. More than anything in the world. She's smart, she's pretty, she's funny, she's—

"Right there, the blue one on the end. That's my car. I just need you to hold on until we get there," she says. "Can you do that?"

"I miss you," he says.

She grates her teeth. "Focus, Peter," she says again.

"Are you in love with Richard?"

"Peter, please, keep walking."

"It's okay if you are," Peter says. The car is getting closer. "You should be happy. I hate him. But you should be happy."

A small, begrudging laugh escapes Gwen, and Peter smiles. "You think I'm funny?" he asks, tickled.

They reach the car. "Here," she says, opening the door. "Get in the back."

Peter obeys. "Where are we going?"

"We aren't going anywhere," she says, sliding into the backseat with him. "Now show me where that thing shot you last night."

"What thing?"

"The robot," says Gwen impatiently. "It shot you last night, didn't it? That's where I've been all morning," she explains, and without asking, starts taking off his coat. "Trying to find the antidote. I know those lasers, they were developed at OsCorp and they're full of really dangerous chemical agents. An ordinary person would be dead by now."

Peter frowns. "Why are you taking off my shirt?"

"Tell me where it shot you and I won't have to," she snaps.

"I—" Peter wracks his brain, trying to understand what she's talking about. He closes his eyes, thinking, thinking, thinking.

"_Peter!_"

"What?"

She is snapping her fingers in front of his eyes. Did he fall asleep?

"We don't have a lot of time here," she says, sitting back. Her hand grazes his shin and he flinches, reeling away from her. She tears at the leg of his jeans, revealing the badly-wrapped wound from this morning, which is now surrounded by various shades of purple, yellow, and green. "Bingo," she says, and without wasting another second, jams a giant hypodermic needle into his leg.

He squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, all he sees is blackness. "Gwen?" he asks. His head feels so heavy. He shuts his eyes again.

"You'll be okay, Peter," he hears her saying. Her voice is shaking. "You're gonna be fine."

* * *

Updating earlier than I meant to-power's about to go out, RAGING storm outside (AGAIN! give me a break!), totally freaking out but it'll be fine, except totally freaking out and such. Anyway, thought I'd update before I was doomed. THANKS FOR REVIEWS, ALSO TREE JUST FELL OVER OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT, WHERE THE HELL IS SPIDERMAN WHEN YOU NEED HIM AHHHH.


	6. Chapter 6

**Lying Heart**

_Chapter Five_

* * *

When he wakes up he's in the back of Gwen's car, and it's moving. He tries to get up and groans.

"Are you awake?"

"I guess," he says. "Where—where are we?"

She pulls the car over. He manages to get into a sitting position, feeling nauseous as he stares at the window and sees an unfamiliar suburban road.

"New Jersey," says Gwen. "I didn't know where to take you. So I just drove."

He climbs up to the front passenger seat and stares at Gwen. Her eyes are red and her knuckles white, still gripping the steering wheel even though they've stopped. She barely looks at him.

"What happened?" Peter asks, wondering if he's done something wrong.

She looks at him disbelievingly. "You don't remember?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. She stares in her lap. She holds herself with a kind of sadness he's never seen on her before. Panic wells in his chest—what has he done? "Are you okay?" he demands. "I—I'm sorry, whatever I did, Gwen, I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head. Oh, jeez. It looks like she's about to cry. Guilt wracks him to his core. She puts a hand in front of her eyes and her chest starts hiccupping and Peter wishes he were dead.

"Please, Gwen," he flounders, not sure if he should touch her or not. "I'm sorry, please, just tell me what I—"

"You _almost died!_" she screams at him, so unexpectedly that he startles backward. Her face is red and mottled, her bangs are a wild, tangled halo, and most of her body is shaking. "You did something _stupid,_ something _completely reckless, again_, and you almost _died_, Peter. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into with that damn robot. By the time I found you, you were practically dead. I swear to God you stopped breathing like three times in the back of my car!"

Not once during this whole speech does she stop screaming. Peter sits there, stunned. He remembers the robot. He remembers getting up for school this morning and kissing Aunt May good-bye. But after that, he remembers nothing at all.

"What would have happened if I hadn't known about the antidote?" she seethes. "You'd be _dead_, Peter. _Finished._"

"Gwen—I—I'm sorry, I really, I didn't mean to get you involved—"

"Of course not, but that's just _it, _Peter! I'm _involved. _I'm indisputably, irrevocably _involved_ in this now, whether you realize it or not, which is why it's a thousand times more infuriating that you insist on upholding this _stupid _idea that you're protecting me by pushing me away." There are angry tears streaming down her face. "You're _hurting_ me, Peter. This _hurts_."

"I'm sorry," he says, helplessly, uselessly. The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he can tell they only anger her more. "Gwen—please, you have to understand—"

"Don't bother," she says, sounding hollowed out. The tears have stopped. She swipes the remaining moisture off her face. "And don't ask me to understand. I understand perfectly."

She sticks the keys back in the ignition and starts driving them toward the city. Peter sits in the passenger seat like a guilty child, a thousand words flitting through his mind. He wants to say something, anything that will make her feel better, that will undo whatever damage has been done, but he knows he can't say anything like that without giving her false hope that he will change his mind.

"The last thing in the world I want is to hurt you," he finally says, about halfway back.

"Then please," she says. "Stop this. It's not your job, Peter. It's not your responsibility."

He stares at his lap. "It is … I can't—I can't just not do this."

"Why?" she demands.

"My uncle … my parents …" he trails off. He knows he hasn't made any sense. She doesn't pry any further, and he decides not to bring anything sensitive up again. After another few minutes he says as cheerfully as he can, "That's a nice necklace. Is it new?"

Her whole body stiffens. He has clearly hit a nerve, and he can't for the life of him figure out why.

"It is," she says curtly. "Richard gave it to me."

"Oh?" he says, hoping she didn't hear the way his voice cracked a little bit with surprise. "So, you're, uh, seeing Richard, then?" he asks before he can stop himself. It doesn't even sound a little bit casual.

"Yes. We're dating."

He digests this. Tries to think of an appropriate response. "I'm happy for you."

"Liar."

Peter snorts. Gwen smiles just a little bit. After a few moments of awkward silence, they're both laughing, laughing until their bellies ache, as if it's the funniest thing in the world.

"I'm sorry, it's not funny," she says between her laughter. "It's not, it's just." She dissolves into giggles again. He's laughing just as hard. "Wow. _Wow_."

"Yeah."

She clears her throat and flicks her bangs out of her face, trying to compose herself.

"What time is it?" Peter asks.

"A little bit past four."

"What happened, anyway?"

They're almost a block away from his place. She shakes her head. "It's probably for the best that you don't remember."

Peter feels an embarrassed rash of heat creeping up his neck. "Did I say something?"

"You said a lot of things." She pulls the car over. "We're here." She grabs something from her purse. "Take these. More of the antidote. I'm not telling you to chase after that thing, but you should have these just in case."

Peter takes them from her. "Gwen," he says in a low voice. "I know that … that I've hurt you. And I know these past few months have been really terrible for you, and I'm sorry I haven't been there, and I know I'm the last person on earth who deserves your help." He shifts awkwardly in his seat. "So thank you. For whatever you did today. I know it couldn't have been easy."

"Oh, Peter," she says. "With you I've never really had a choice."

He's not quite sure what she means, but suddenly she's leaning forward—_cinnamon gum—_and kissing him on the cheek. She lingers for just a moment. His eyes shut involuntarily. He knows for a fact that if he shifted just an inch to his left, they'd both be done for.

He doesn't. It takes every ounce of willpower he has left.

"Good night," she says.

He opens the car door and slides out. He shouldn't look at her, but he does. She is breathtaking in the evening light, this girl he has never deserved. "Good night."

* * *

He goes back out that night, of course, but he lays low. He doesn't want any more headlines jumping out at his aunt if he can prevent it, and besides that, he doesn't want Gwen to think he has disregarded her completely. Not much else happens that night, fortunately. He braces himself for another attack from whatever that thing was the night before, but it must still be sunk at the bottom of the river.

Around four in the morning he climbs back up to his window and finishes some homework, then fiddles around with the pictures he is thinking of submitting for his portfolio. He stops so he can shower and get ready for the day. To his relief, the swelling around the wound on his shin has gone down considerably in the past twelve hours.

Under the steam of the shower he wonders what it was he could have said to Gwen to make her so guarded the way she was in the car. He hopes he didn't say anything mean, or anything incriminating. It has already been such a struggle to stay away from her these past few months, and the thought that he could unravel it in one short day that he can't even remember makes his stomach twist.

Then he thinks of Richard, and feels a different kind of twist—a self-pity twist. He stands in the shower feeling sorry for himself for at least a solid five minutes. How can she be attracted to that guy? He's so … perfect. And boring. And stupid. And to be honest, Peter doesn't know that much about him, but how could their chemistry compare to his and Gwen's? Why would she settle for anything less than that?

Unless she really did have amazing chemistry with him. Peter can't help but shake the images out of his head in disgust—Gwen, lacing her hands in Richard's at a movie, or kissing him on a rooftop, or snuggling up next to him in the glow of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller center. One revolting idea after another, they chase each other around in his brain until he can't take it anymore, and he abruptly turns the shower off and dries himself so fast his skin gets red and raw.

He catches a glance at his reflection in the mirror, and for a second he hates himself. He's lost her forever and he is the only one to blame.

But then he remembers yesterday: she chose him. For however long that ordeal was, she chose to save him, to do whatever it took. And while that doesn't mean she still loves him, while that doesn't mean she wants him more than Richard, it means that she cares just enough that maybe she isn't lost to him.

Of course, the crushing blow comes next—the inevitable, the impossible to ignore. It doesn't matter whether or not she's lost, because he can never have her either way.

* * *

So I survived the storm last night, and power has been restored to my apartment complex! Thanks for your well wishes and beautiful reviews. Now if you'll excuse me ... I've waited 21 years for this birthday to come along, and it's time for this kid to order a drink and then shout BOO-YAH at the bartender when he says he doesn't sell to fifteen-year-olds.

Oh yes, folks. It's the big one (which means I've been fanficking for nine years, god help me, and am probably the biggest dinosaur left on fanfiction).

REMEMBER KIDS-DON'T DRINK AND WRITE (most of the time).


	7. Chapter 7

**Lying Heart**

_Chapter Six_

* * *

"Well, consider me impressed," says Mr. Carter, looking over the photographs Peter is considering for submission for his portfolio. "These angles are imaginative. Gravity-defying." He raises an eyebrow. "I'm not going to ask how you got any of them, because I'd hate to be responsible for you falling a thousand feet."

Peter smiles. "So you think they're okay to submit?"

"More than," says Mr. Carter. "You've really managed to turn the semester around, too. I'd be more than happy to write a recommendation letter for you, if you're applying to any academic programs as well."

"Great, thanks," says Peter. He's about to start collecting his photos when Mr. Carter lays a hand back on them on his desk.

"I'm curious about two of them, though. If I can ask?"

"Sure."

The first picture he pulls out is one of Gwen, one that he took before the whole Spiderman thing happened. She's sitting on a picnic table in the school courtyard in her high boots and a skirt, reading a book, her hair in her face. Held up against the other photos, Peter notices the stark contrast of it against the other pictures: everything else is dark, almost gritty, compared to the blonde girl in the blatant, cheery sunshine.

"You see what I mean," says Mr. Carter.

Peter nods, still staring at the picture.

"It's not that it's a bad photo. It's actually a nice moment you've managed to capture here, and it speaks a lot to who the girl is as a person. Or how the photographer feels about her," Mr. Carter says, raising an eyebrow. "But it's so different from your other pieces, I'm afraid it might distract from them. It really doesn't have any connection with the other photos, which all seem to have a unified concept."

"You're right." Peter doesn't know why he stuck that picture in there in the first place. Well, he knows why, but that doesn't stop him from being embarrassed about it.

"And this one," says Mr. Carter. He pulls out the picture Peter took of himself as Spiderman slinging through a back alley. Peter's eyes grow wide. In all honesty, he hadn't meant to submit it to Mr. Carter. He had only been goofing around when he took it, but it does sort of blend in with the rest of his portfolio, and was probably all too easy to shove in with the rest.

"Oh," Peter says, flustered. "I didn't mean to—I don't want to submit that."

"I would, if I were you," Mr. Carter disagrees. "It's an amazing picture. What I'm curious about, though—was this staged, or is it the real guy?"

Peter watches Mr. Carter's face, unsure whether or not he should be suspicious of this question. But the man's eyes seem genuinely lit with an almost boyish excitement. It's the first time Peter has ever seen an adult react to the idea of Spiderman with such enthusiasm, and for a moment he's afraid he's going to laugh, so he looks down at his shoes and makes himself concentrate.

"I don't know if it was," says Peter. "He just … flew into the alley, and I was lucky enough to be there."

Mr. Carter almost looks disappointed.

"But he sure looked like the real thing. I mean, shooting webs and all," Peter continues. "He was pretty cool." This seems braggy. "I guess," he adds, so he's not totally an egomaniac.

Mr. Carter looks hesitant for a moment. "Do you mind if I make a copy of this?" he asks, holding up the picture.

Peter can't think of a good reason to tell him no. "Go ahead," he says.

Mr. Carter pulls the photo out of the stack and walks it over to the copy machine by his desk. "Tell me what you think first," he says, hitting the buttons to copy it, "but a friend of mine said they're looking for interns at the Daily Bugle, and I'm sure they'd be interested in photos like this. Do you think you could ever get a picture like this again?"

Peter shrugs. "Probably," he says. This sounds too confident. "Maybe," he amends.

"I'll run it by them, then, if that's okay with you."

Peter feels uneasy. He wants the internship, sure—that could open a lot of doors for him. But at the same time, reliably being able to take pictures of Spiderman seems more than a little incriminating. How could he explain himself, when he always magically knew where Spiderman was going to be and where to stand to get the perfect shot?

But now he's waited too long to say anything, and Mr. Carter has taken his silence as confirmation. Peter reasons that it doesn't matter. The odds of them hiring him over one stupid photo are slim anyway.

He leaves Mr. Carter's office that day and runs smack into someone. His photos go flying down the hallway, and immediately he starts scrambling to pick them up.

"Aw, sorry, man. Here, let me help you."

Peter looks up in alarm. It's Richard. He scans the hallway for the picture of Gwen, but already knows with unspeakable dread that it must already be in the other boy's hands if he hasn't spotted it by now.

"Wow," says Richard. "This is a … great shot."

Peter clears his throat. "Yeah." He's not sure whether or not he should hold his hand out to take it back. Gwen is Richard's girlfriend now, after all, and for some absurd reason Peter feels like this gives him more of a right to the picture even though he took it himself.

Richard's eyes narrow. "When was this taken?"

"A few months ago."

"Huh. I didn't even know you and Gwen were that good of friends." He looks about as uncomfortable as Peter feels. "Does she, like—pose for you or something?"

"No," Peter says quickly, "no, no, of course not."

The relief is evident on Richard's face. Then he frowns. "Did she know you were taking this?"

Peter clears his throat again. "Um." He finishes picking up the last of the pictures and looks down at the floor. "No, not really." Richard doesn't say anything and Peter laughs uncomfortably. "It was a long time ago. I was just picking up some old pictures I'd used for a portfolio on student life," he lies.

Richard seems to believe this. "Oh. Gotcha."

"Yeah. Uh." He still hasn't given it back to Peter. "You can keep it if you want," he says.

"You won't need it?"

"Nah," says Peter, his voice sounding a little more pubescent than usual.

"Cool."

Richard pulls out his backpack and neatly places it in one of his folders. Peter observes with some dismay that Richard's backpack is as impeccable and organized as it can get. Something you would only expect of a boy who wears ironed shirts with jeans to school. Peter thinks of his own backpack, with papers spilling everywhere. Thinks of his own jeans, and can't even remember the last time he put them through the wash.

He finishes zipping up his backpack, the photo neatly zipped away. For some reason this feels like the most final he can get from distancing himself from Gwen. He has physically, for all intents and purposes, given her away to someone else.

"Thanks, man," says Richard. "See you around. Keep shooting."

"Shooting?" Peter asks, alarmed. "Shooting what?" Gwen would never tell Richard his secret, right?

Richard looks at him as if he's grown two heads. "Pictures," he elaborates.

"Oh." Peter laughs. "Of course." He shoves his folder back into his backpack. "See you around."

* * *

Thanks for the reviews and the birthday wishes :). My life just got significantly less crazy so I'm looking forward to some writing times (ie, daydreaming about Andrew Garfield times) and a night with just me and this frozen pizza. Because if I blow another ten bucks seeing Spiderman again, I will not have enough money to live.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Two weeks before Christmas is the first time Peter is ever hit on while wearing his Spiderman attire. He's playing with his cell phone, listening to the police radio on a volume so dim that only he could hear it, when a woman sidles into the alley dressed in what appears to be a push up bra and the tightest, most unflattering shorts Peter has ever seen. He takes a step back in surprise—he heard her coming, of course, but wasn't expecting a full-on hooker, and now he's beet red and stumbling out of the shadows and as embarrassed as it gets.

The woman looks equally shocked for a moment as well, but then her upper lip curls up like a cat's, and she walks over to Peter with grossly miscalculated confidence.

"Hey there, big guy," she purrs.

Nobody has ever called Peter "big guy," at least not in a non-sarcastic way.

Peter gulps, taking a step back. "Ma'am," he says, in the deepest voice he can muster. He immediately feels like an idiot, but he's never really talked to anyone but Gwen or the cops or other criminals while he was in the suit, and for some reason he wants to give off the image that he's older than he is to fend her off. As she advances on him he knows it would have been safer not to bother.

She laughs at him. Cackles, would be a better word. "My, oh, my," she says. "Spiderman's just a kid, huh?"

Peter feels the back of his neck starts to sweat. He tries to think of a moment in his life more awkward than this one, but he's pretty sure this takes the cake. "Are you, uh. In need of assistance?"

She smirks. "You bet I am, hot stuff." Suddenly she's mere inches away from him. Her breath smells stale and he tries not to take another step back so he won't look like a total coward.

"Um. Not like that," he says, hopefully with more confidence.

"You're just playing dress up, aren't you?" she says. "Little boy wants to play superhero for the night, so he goes around the city dressed as the Spiderman."

Peter doesn't say anything. He desperately wishes she would just go away.

"I can play dress up, too, you know," she whispers, leaning in to touch his mask.

He darts out of her way. "That's enough," he says, and simultaneously he hears the radio frequency calling all available units to Times Square, that the unidentified technological threat has returned. He leaps up to a fire escape above him. He is only a few blocks away.

The hooker gasps. "Are you—you're the real—?"

"You should leave this area immediately," says Peter. He points in the direction that will take her furthest away from Times Square. "Go."

He doesn't wait for her to answer. He soars through the city streets fast enough to suck all the air out of his lungs. He saw the way that thing decimated all those officers last time, and he knows that given the chance it will do a lot worse, especially in the most populated area in New York at this time of night.

It takes less than a minute for him to arrive. For a second he can't even see it. He scans the area, seeing people screaming and running in so many directions that he has no idea where exactly they're running from, and has no clue where to look. Then a bright light flashes across the sky and sizzles noisily as it hits the cement; Peter looks up, and there it is again, but so much worse than before.

It appears to have armor now. Whereas before its circuits were exposed, now it looks finished, protected by artfully designed armor made of something that looks impenetrable, and eerily lifelike. It looks like an overgrown, metal human.

An overgrown, metal human that has now shifted its attention to Peter alone.

"Come and get me," he yells, wondering if it can even hear him. Regardless, it seems to know that he poses a bigger threat than the officers whose bullets are ricocheting off of it uselessly. Peter notes that there are a lot fewer officers responding to the call this time, but he can hardly blame them, considering how fast it killed their comrades the night before.

His first thought as the robot comes after him is to let it chase him to a less populated area, but it's catching up to him way too fast. He swings higher and higher, as far from the ground as he can get. The thing is repeatedly shooting at him again, and the only reason Peter is able to dodge is he can hear the deadly whizz of noise behind him just after it releases another shot.

He reaches the top of one of the taller buildings and sees an entire crowd of people partying on a hotel rooftop, and immediately changes course, hearing drunk people scream behind him.

If he can't go up or down, he'll settle for sideways. It shoots at him again as he changes course and accidentally puts himself right in the line of fire; it burns straight through his arm and for a few seconds he is so stunned by the suddenness of the pain that he lets himself fall an unintentional hundred feet before getting his wits back about him and aiming a web toward another building.

He sticks to a side wall of a building when he senses it getting too close to him and just shoots webs at it for all he's worth. He feels stupid, feels incompetent. He's really not doing anything but distracting it, and while it's enough for the time being, it won't be enough in five seconds when this thing blows him to smithereens. It lifts an arm at him, and Peter sees that it is gearing up for a blast much larger than all the previous ones, so much so that it seems to be taking a few extra seconds to power up. Peter starts shooting webs into the massive hole where the energy is building in its hand, but it does absolutely nothing to deter it. In a split second, he peeks through the windows of the building; empty. He waits until just before the thing shoots, and he throws himself out of the line of fire.

Where the hell did this thing even _come_ from? At least with the Lizard there was an explanation for it, a tangible person he could blame. If he lives through the night he'll ask Gwen about those lasers. It would have been the responsible thing to do in the first place. If he just hadn't been so intent on avoiding her—

"_Shit!_"

It has hit him again, this time right near the original shin injury. The pain is white-hot and crippling. He thinks of Gwen's extra antidote, tucked away under his bed—will he even make it home to use it? Will he ever see home again?

No. _No_. This is not the time to be pathetic and feeling sorry for himself. There is a time and a place for that, called high school, and he'll be damned if he doesn't get rid of this nuisance and get back there.

He rounds on it, more determined than ever to find some sort of weak spot. He checks the devices on his arms and sees both warning lights are on. He grits his teeth and decides he'll hope for the best.

Just as the thing starts to look like it's gearing up to murder him, Peter hears a voice on a megaphone he can only assume is directed at him: "Lead it down here so I can get a better shot!" a man's voice commands.

At first Peter ignores it, assuming it's an overly-confident police officer.

"_If you want everyone to live_, lead it down here, _now_."

This catches Peter's attention. He stares down at the direction where the voice is coming from. In the dark he can't see much of the man addressing him, but he has what appears to be a giant bazooka gun in his hands. This seems reckless. But Peter is completely out of options, and if this man has even the slightest inkling of what he's doing, he's a thousand times more capable of doing something about this than Peter is.

Peter tears off in the direction of the voice, hearing another command: "_Hurry_." Peter tries not to roll his eyes. Has he _not_ been taking care of this stupid thing for the past ten minutes? Where was mister hot shot then?

As soon as they're in range, the man yells at Peter to get out of the way, then blasts the loudest shot Peter has ever heard come out of a weapon. It hits the robot dead on. Peter sees now that it wasn't a bullet at all, but some sort of device, which has planted itself onto the robot's chest and seems to be causing quite a mechanical stir. The robot shakes and rattles in vain, like a dying animal, then plummets to the ground with a loud crash.

Peter lands beside the strange man, staring at the felled robot in awe. "What did you do?" he can't help but ask.

"It's an interference reactor. It will disable it for the time being," the man says shortly.

"Wow," says Peter, almost laughing with relief. It looks so harmless down there now, just a chunk of useless metal. "And you're going to—what, dismantle it?"

"That's the plan."

"Alone? Cuz I can help you—you really got me out of a tight spot back there—"

The man rounds on him. His face is completely in shadow, which only serves to make his words all the more harsh and disorienting. "I am not your friend, and I was not here to help you tonight," he says sternly. "I have no idea what you are, but in my experience, anomalies like you only bring trouble."

Peter is taken aback. At first he feels like he's being scolded, like a naughty kid in grade school. But just as quickly he is furious. How dare he talk to Peter like that, after he has risked his life twice in the past week to save people from this thing?

The man is walking away from him.

"Hey," Peter calls after him angrily. "Where were you the past few days? I might be an anomaly, but at least I was _here_, trying to help. And you, who seem to have a suspiciously good understanding of what this thing is—where were you, huh? Where were you when those twenty six cops died?"

He is trying to hit a nerve, but it is apparently not working. The man stops but he doesn't turn around.

"You're just a kid, aren't you?" he asks. Peter thinks of the hooker in the alley, just fifteen minutes before, asking the same thing. This man does not seem at all sympathetic to him, though. If anything, discovering that he's younger only seems to make him more resolved to doubt Peter's intentions. "Stay out of this. You've done your bit, you've had your little hero parade, but this is way over your head."

"_What?_" Peter splutters. "This is not—not a _hero_ parade. You don't get to show up here days too late and condescend me like I'm just some stupid kid." The man doesn't seem to have any intention of responding to him, and it just irks Peter even more. "How do I know you want what's best for this city? I have just as much reason not to trust you as you have not to trust me. You haven't said a _word_ about who you are or what you want."

"It doesn't matter who I am. What matters is that I'm the only one who knows how to stop this, the only one who knows who is behind it."

"Then tell me," says Peter emphatically. "I can _help_ you."

The man starts walking toward the disabled robot, leaving a bewildered, angry Peter in his wake.

"No."

* * *

SHOCK! A plot! I'm trying, folks. You know, when I'm not focusing on how gosh-darn adorable Peter is. BIG PLANS IN STORE. Thanks so much for the reviews, guys, they really make my day and I take to heart what everyone suggests and comments on. I tell the picture of Andrew Garfield I keep by my bed just how much the reviews mean to me before I fall asleep at night.

Just kidding.

Except I'm not.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Peter would have stayed on the scene longer and tried to pry more information out of the man, but he is also aware that the wounds on his arm and leg are much deeper than the previous graze, and that he is essentially a ticking time bomb until he gets home to the antidote.

Gingerly, he jams one of the antidotes into his arm. He's not really sure if these things came with instructions, but he figured it there were some perilously specific way he had to do it, Gwen would have said something.

He can almost feel the antidote flooding like cold water through his veins. The edges of his vision go black, and for a moment he feels like he's dreaming—he can hear Gwen's voice saying, _You'll be okay, Peter. You're gonna be fine_, and he's certain that he's not delusional, that he's remembering something, maybe the last time she injected this stuff into him.

He eases himself back, leaning against his bed. The antidote has left a chill in his bones that he can't seem to shake. He's too tired to even shiver. He thinks of Gwen, which is the worst thing to do when he's this tired, because for the first time since the captain died he lets himself feel his sadness in full force.

It feels like there's a weight crushing his chest. How awful to think that just a few months ago everything was normal. Just a few months ago he was flirting with her bashfully in a hallway, sneaking pictures of her on courtyard benches, pretending to be lost in class so he could ask her what page they were supposed to be studying. At the time it had seemed painful to pine after her before he'd gotten the courage to ask her out, but he looks back on that old pain with a kind of nostalgia. He didn't know what pining was back then. He didn't understand it could be so, so much worse.

There's so much that he wants to tell her, to make her understand. But it's hopeless now. She has somebody else to tell her all the things she needs to hear. She doesn't need Peter anymore, which he should be grateful for. It should take away some of the pain of his decision, the guilt that has burdened him since that night the Lizard killed her father, but it doesn't.

Peter is too tired to keep his head up any longer. He thinks maybe he'll just sleep on the floor, because getting up on the mattress seems like too much effort, but he drags himself up there anyway. It might be nice to sleep. His head hits the pillow like a brick. He falls asleep with the unsettling image of Gwen and Richard holding hands that day at the minimart, except this time they aren't walking, so they never get any further away.

* * *

The next day is a Saturday. Aunt May asks him if he wants to go ice skating, and even though he'd rather stick his head in a toilet than actually get out of bed, he agrees to go with her. They bundle up, pull out their old ice skates and head for the door.

"Could we go to Rockefeller Center?" asks Aunt May. "I haven't been downtown in weeks, I haven't even seen the big tree yet."

"Sure," says Peter hesitantly. He supposes she hasn't read the paper for once and doesn't know about the attack the night before. He wonders if the rink is even open. It was probably the very least of his concerns while that thing was shooting at him left and right. But he doesn't want to spoil Aunt May's mood by telling her a giant robot attacked the city, especially now that he's fairly certain it's no longer a threat.

"I'm sure it will be crowded," she says, "but that's kind of the fun of it, isn't it?"

"Yeah," says Peter, hoping he sounds enthusiastic. Even the idea of Christmas approaching isn't quite enough to wake him up today.

They arrive at the rink, and to Peter's relief, it is open.

"Where is everyone?" Aunt May asks, frowning.

There's a newspaper on the ground, with a blurry picture of the robot flying above Times Square. "Um," says Peter, pointing at it.

Aunt May leans down to pick it up. "Oh, my," she says after a moment. "This happened last night?" She looks at Peter in alarm, does her usual once-over to make sure he's in tact, and then snaps her attention back to the paper. "I thought it was taken care of last week. Should we even be out right now?"

"I'm sure it's fine," Peter says firmly.

"How do you—?" She purses her lips, then carefully folds the paper before scanning for a recycling bin. "You really think we're fine to be out here, then?"

"Yeah, yeah," says Peter. "I mean, look, there's tons of people out, I'm sure it just scared off all the tourists."

They don't wait in line for more than five minutes, which is almost unheard of at this time of year. Peter makes a big show of being a gentleman and taking his aunt's hand and leading her on the ice. They do a few laps around the rink like that, joking and stumbling. Peter spins her a few times, deftly catching her with his newfound reflexes. She squeals, beaming with delight, and Peter thinks that maybe these silly moments on the ice are worth the ache he feels from those shots last night and then some.

Aunt May finishes laughing after a less than graceful maneuver and looks up toward the line of people entering the rink. "That's a pretty girl," she remarks.

"Huh?" Peter turns around. It's Gwen. He looks away before he can see Richard in tow. He doesn't want to wreck this fun memory with his aunt with the image of the two of them canoodling on the ice. "Oh, yeah," he says noncommittally.

"Doesn't she go to your school, Peter?"

"I guess," he says. He offers her his hand. "Wanna go around again?"

Aunt May smiles at him. "I think I'm ready for a cup of cocoa, aren't you?"

Peter looks toward the café beside the rink. He feels Gwen's stare on him but he refuses to meet her eye. "Sure," he says, skating over toward the exit once he's sure that Gwen is no longer at the mouth of it.

They take off their coats and settle in with their cocoa when Aunt May starts her inevitable prying. "Who is that girl, anyway?" she asks, trying to sound casual.

Peter takes an unnecessarily long sip of his drink. "Just some girl."

"She was staring at you an awful lot for just some girl," Aunt May says knowingly. "Tell me about her."

"Okay." Peter slouches in his seat. "There's just, uh. Not much to tell. She's just this girl," he says again, his throat tight.

"What's her name?" Aunt May asks patiently.

"Gwen," says Peter, maybe a little too fast. He tries again, making himself sound more nonchalant. "Gwen Stacy. She was in my biology class freshman year," he says, which isn't a lie, even if it doesn't so much as tap the surface of his relationship with her.

"Mmhmmm." The door chimes behind him, and Aunt May glances up to see who has walked in. "I think I'll excuse myself to use the lady's room," she says, with some sort of odd glint in her eyes that is suddenly making Peter uneasy.

He turns around and sees that it's Gwen who has entered, and her eyes are locked on him. "Really, Aunt May?" he says lowly. "Right _now?_"

"Be right back," she says with a merry wave.

Peter slouches even further into his seat, trying to look as unapproachable as possible, but he can feel her walking up anyway. Without asking for permission she slides a chair up to the little table he is sitting at. He looks up, just for a second to acknowledge her, but looks away just as fast and stares down at his drink.

"Hey," she says. "I'm glad you're okay."

Peter nods. "Thanks."

Gwen clears her throat. Peter still doesn't look up.

"I have an idea to propose, if you hear me out," she says loudly, as if she needs to make an extra effort to hold his attention.

Peter looks up at her sullenly. "Did you just leave Richard outside to propose this idea?" He knows it's a childish thing to say, but he had a rough night and between his frustration with the strange man and his whole situation with Gwen, he quite frankly doesn't care what he sounds like.

"What?" She squints at him for a second, confused. "No, no. I'm not here with Richard, I'm here with my brothers."

"Oh," says Peter, feeling foolish but somewhat pleased to know that Richard is nowhere in sight.

Gwen shakes her head, the barest of smirks on her face. "So listen," she says. "Why can't we just … be friends?"

Peter looks up at her questioningly. "Uh," he stammers. "What?"

"You know. You and me," she says slowly. "Why can't we just be friends?"

He purses his lips. "Aren't we?"

Her eyebrows rise so high into her bangs that they almost disappear. "No," she says. "We aren't."

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Look, Gwen …"

"No, no, no. You didn't hear me out," she interrupts, putting a finger up to halt him for extra measure. "It's just that it's different—from what my dad made you promise, whatever he said, because we're not, you know. _Involved_. Not if we're just friends."

"That's just—I'm sorry," Peter flounders. "It's still. It's the same as being involved, Gwen, it's the same thing—"

"No, it's _not_," Gwen protests. She's getting flustered, he can tell by the way she keeps pushing her hair back, knocking her headband askew. "Because I'm _with_ Richard, so it's not like we're, you know, involved. It's different now. It's not the kind of involved my dad was thinking of, I'm sure it's not, so please, Peter, think about it. Let's just be friends again."

"Again?" Peter asks, incredulous. "Gwen, we were never _friends_ in the first place, it was—_involved_," he says, putting a tone of mockery on her choice of the word, "right from the _start_."

"Peter," she says, starting to rally, but he cuts her off.

"Wait a minute, here, would you?" he demands. "You're asking me to be your _friend_, so I can watch you and Richard walk around like the perfect golden couple that you are and just sit on the sidelines twiddling my thumbs?"

"Hey," says Gwen, her cheeks turning bright red, "whose fault is _that?_"

"Mine!" Peter snaps. "It's all my fault, isn't it? Let's all just blame Peter for everything, I'm sure you and Richard just have a _ball_ talking about how terrible I am while you're not sucking each other's faces—"

"Forget it," Gwen seethes. "Forget I said anything, it was a stupid idea." She collects her purse and starts walking out the door.

"You're right," Peter says stupidly, because he wants the last word. "It _was _stupid! It was the most stupid of all—the _stupidest —_"

The door shuts behind her with a crash before he can finish the rest of his poorly-planned comeback. He slams his hand down on the table so hard that he accidentally crushes the napkin holder. He looks up and the sole worker behind the coffee counter is gaping at him in shock.

"What?" Peter snaps.

The guy looks away and pretends to scrub the counter intently. Just then Aunt May comes out of the bathroom. She looks at the table, looks at the crushed napkin holder, looks at Peter.

He hangs his head, not quite ready to feel his shame in full force. "Can we just … can we just go home?"

* * *

Thanks again for the reviews, guys. They please me so much that I can overlook the fact that most of you want Andrew as much as I do, which means that inevitably we will all have to fight each other to the death, but for now ... for now, we can all be friends.

Unlike Gwen and Peter. Teenage angst angst angst.


	10. Chapter 10

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Peter hardly leaves his room after the fight with Gwen. He goes through various stages of alternately feeling sorry for what he said and feeling sorry for himself until he starts overthinking every little thing they said to each other, and becomes convinced that if he doesn't find some way to apologize in the next ten minutes she is going to hate him forever, and the urge to just zip over to her place and pour his guts out is so compelling that more than once he has to deliberately walk away from his backpack, where his suit is crumpled in a heap.

He is restless. Unfocused. It feels like there is a literal ball of anxiety wadded in his chest. He worries briefly about Gwen's reaction as she left, but she is a reasonable girl, and will most likely cope with the fight the same way he will, by neurotically pacing around her room.

He paces and paces until he can recall every line of the fight like a movie script. Sometimes he remembers and cringes at his insensitivity, and sometimes he remembers and thinks that he's _right_, if she could just see that there wouldn't be a problem at all, but just as soon as he's thought either thing, he changes his mind and is back at square one.

He should just apologize. Right now. Knock on her window and get it over with before the ball in his chest grows into a black hole. But his thoughts are far too scrambled to apologize, he'll only make an ass of himself if he does it now.

Instead he forces himself to make his last minute edits to his application. It's calming and methodical, spending the next two hours clicking away subtle imperfections in his photos and writing down all his standard information in neat scrawl on the application. By the end of the two hours he decides there's really not much else he can do to perfect it, so he addresses an oversized envelope and very neatly and carefully slides the semester's work inside. He can put it in the mail on Monday.

Now that he is reasonably calm, he decides to head over to Gwen's. He still isn't sure what he'll say, but he knows that he is rational enough now not to let the fight continue by saying something as equally stupid as this morning.

He swoops up near her window and stands there for a moment, where she can't see him. Her back is turned to him. She let her hair down from its ponytail and it is hanging loose on her neck. She is unreadable, inaccessible. He wonders if this is such a good idea after all, or if he's just using it as an excuse to see her. Is he doing this for Gwen's benefit or his own? Is this apology, this impromptu evening trip to her window, breaking the promise to the captain?

It's the closest he has come to disobeying the captain's final wishes, but Peter feels that anxious stirring in his chest and can't help himself. He knocks gently on the window.

Gwen startles, but doesn't move to look at him. Peter waits a few seconds. She'll turn around eventually.

She doesn't.

He knocks again, and this time she doesn't even flinch.

"Gwen," Peter says loudly, knowing she can hear him through the glass. His heart starts pounding. Oh, God. She's totally ignoring him now. "Gwen, please," he says, louder this time, "I'm sorry. Just—just open the window."

She looks like a statue, the way she's sitting. He wishes he could see her face. He wishes he had the right words to make her turn around. He puts a hand up to the window, feeling more powerless than ever.

"Fine," says Peter. "Fine. I'll just sit out here, however long it takes. I'm not leaving until you talk to me." It occurs to him that this is an incredibly stupid thing for the most wanted man in New York to be vowing to a girl with a very publicly displayed fire escape. It must occur to her, too, because her shoulders tense just the tiniest bit.

Peter hears one of Gwen's brothers call that it's time for dinner. She gets up, taking almost absurd care not to angle her body in any position where he can see her face.

"Come on, Gwen," he says one more time, but she shuts the door behind her.

He knows he's being stubborn, but now that he has made his ridiculous declaration not to leave, he can't go back on it. It's mid-December, freezing, and dark, but Peter will not let this deter him. He will sit here on her fire escape for a week, if he has to. He'll call Aunt May and tell her that he's staying at a friend's house, he'll miss all his classes, he'll miss the deadline to send his portfolio, but he won't leave, not until she caves in and talks to him.

_Leave Gwen out of it_.

The words are so jarring and clear in his consciousness that Peter could almost believe that the captain is on the fire escape with him. He shakes his head. No, it's not like that, he _is_ leaving Gwen out of it, but why does Gwen have to hate him to make that happen?

It starts to snow. "Seriously?" Peter groans, feeling it stick to his clothes and melt into the fabric.

It must be an hour before she returns. She opens her door and he looks up at the motion, and for just a split second the two of them are staring straight at each other. Her eyes widen and he's almost insulted by her disbelief that he is still out there. She starts moving to the window, her movements quick and full of intention, and Peter's heart starts racing with anticipation because he's that certain that she's going to let him in.

"Gwen," he says, just as she reaches him.

Her blinds tumble down with a clatter. For a moment he is so stunned that he doesn't even react. Then he sees her move to the next window and pull down the next set of blinds. He jumps up just as she's touching the third one, about to hit his hand against the glass, but at the last second he remembers that he might just accidentally shatter it in the state he's in and thinks the better of it.

"I'm not going to leave," he says instead. "You can pull them down, I'm not going anywhere."

He thinks it might stop her, but it doesn't. The third set of blinds goes down and Peter is completely cut off, probably for the first time since they met. For a long time he doesn't even move. It feels as if she has slapped him in the face—no, it feels worse than that, Peter thinks he might have even been comforted by a slap in the face, because that would at least mean that she was acknowledging his presence.

He slumps against the walls of her building, forgetting that the ground is freezing wet with melted snow. He doesn't bother getting back up. It's going to be a long night.

Just then he hears his phone chirping at him. He programmed it to alert him whenever certain phrases were used in the police frequency, and it seems to have picked up on several of them, including the key "all available units." Peter quickly tunes in. The call is summoning officers to an intersection a good twenty blocks from where Peter is now.

He looks at the window, at the bleak white blinds separating him from Gwen. He wants to stay. He wants a lot of things. But before he can imagine what his Uncle Ben would say, he tears off into the evening light to find a place to change into his suit, hoping Gwen will understand.

When he gets closer to the scene, he immediately knows he is in over his head. From his perch on a tall rooftop he can see that there are, in fact, _two_ ridiculously large and well-armored robots soaring over Manhattan. Peter grits his teeth and pushes forward. He doesn't have a plan—he never does—but he's hoping the man from before will be there to disable them before they blast him to smithereens.

He lays low for a moment when he finally arrives, searching for the man with the bazooka, but he doesn't see him anywhere. "Great," he mutters. "Guess I'm on my own for this one."

He soars into the air, intent on getting in the sightline of the two massive beings, which seem to be ignoring each other in favor of shooting at moving cars and buildings. Not for the first time, Peter wonders what possible reason anyone would have to unleash these things on the city. Why is it just New York? How many are there, and if they keep getting stronger each time, is somebody really producing them in a matter of days?

The only person he could discuss this with currently hates him. Before Peter can feel sorry for himself some more, he directly enters one of the robot's sightlines, and so the absurd chase begins.

Peter decides to head for higher ground this time—he's in a less populated area and doesn't have to worry so much about interrupting drunken hotel rooftop parties. He climbs and climbs, not quite fast enough, but it really isn't his intention to keep up the chase for long. He keeps a decent aerial view of the street. The man with the bazooka thing has to be here somewhere. Honestly, someone that arrogant and self-important surely wouldn't miss this, especially after telling Peter off for getting involved in the first place.

He hears the shots getting closer to him. It's a hell of a lot harder to dodge them when he's slinging from his webs, but there's also no way he can outrun them just by climbing. He compromises by trying to alternate between the two—the only advantage is that he can turn himself around much faster than the bulky robots.

Not that this matters much, because they seem to be tracking his heat even when he is hidden behind buildings. After the first minute or so of their chase, only one of the robots' attention is on him; he doesn't know where the other one has gone, but it concerns him enough that he lingers for a moment, looking for it, and that is the moment he gets shot straight through his side.

The pain is so intense and disarming that Peter doesn't even realize he is falling for the longest time. The falling seems to last forever. The sting in his side only gets unimaginably worse as he falls, and all he wants to do is shut his eyes and just let himself hit the ground, because he does not have enough attention left to spare on anything but the pain.

He doesn't consciously sling the web that saves him, but suddenly he is dangling about twenty feet from the ground off of a building. One of the robots is fast approaching to finish him off. Peter lets himself fall the remaining twenty feet, landing less than gracefully.

That's when he sees him: the man with the disabling weapon, pointed toward the sky.

"Where the hell have you _been?_" Peter snaps at the man, whose face is still obscured by sunglasses. "I thought you had this taken care of!"

The man ignores him, shooting at the robot, which seems to have gained better reflexive skills since their last encounter. His second shot hits the mark. The robot falls with an earth-shattering, electrified thud and the man sets down the bazooka and turns his attention to Peter.

"Don't put the damn thing down, there's _another_ one!" Peter yells. His mouth is full of blood. It's sticking uncomfortably to his mask.

"It has already retreated."

"What?" Peter's tongue is thick in his mouth. He can barely stand. But he's not going to sit here and believe this blowhard a second time. "How the hell would you even know that?"

"I told you to stay out of this," says the man, reaching into his coat.

"That's all well and good, until you're letting a bunch of giant _robots_ shoot at innocent people—what the hell do you expect me to do?" Peter fumes. He's so dizzy he can barely stay upright, which is why he does not notice the man pulling an oddly shaped weapon out of his coat. "I want _answers!_ After the last few weeks of running around the city after these hunks of metal, I _deserve _to have some—"

The shot rings out and hits Peter's chest. It's some sort of high-powered taser. By the time it is pulsating through his body, he is already beyond feeling pain. He hits the ground with a thud.

The last thing he sees is the strange man in sunglasses looming over him, and then everything is dark.

* * *

Things are happeninggggg. Thank you for the reviews. I had such a stressful day at work today and the reviews pretty much were the only reason I didn't bang my head against the wall during my lunch break (that, and I really, really like food, and head banging kind of gets in the way of eating it). I work with babies, so I can't really be stressed at work, so as soon as I left and some woman honked at me for taking too long to cross the intersection, I literally looked up and screamed "DON'T HONK AT ME WHEN I HAVE THE WALK SIGNAL, LADY!" and pointed emphatically at the walk sign like a crazy homeless lunatic.

Friday, man. Friday.


	11. Chapter 11

**Lying Heart**

* * *

When Peter wakes, his entire body is pulsating and aching. He tries to lift his head and at first he thinks he must have been blinded somehow—he can't see a thing—but then he realizes as his eyes adjust to the darkness that he is in a dimly-lit room, with all of his limbs restrained to a lone chair.

He tries to rip his arms out of their bindings, even though he knows it's stupid to try. Whoever that man is, if he has taken the care to do this to him, he is not going to make it so easy for Peter to escape. Still, he struggles and tugs in vain, until he feels the sharp stab of pain in his side reminding him of where the shot went through him earlier.

The antidote. Oh, jesus. He has no idea where he is but he's certain he'll never free himself in time to get to it.

"Hello?" Peter's voice is raspy. He clears his throat. "Hello?" he tries again, louder. "Is anybody here?"

His eyes dart to all the corners of the room he can see, but it's completely empty. He struggles again, until the muscles in his arms and legs are screaming for release, and yells, "Where the hell am I? _Hey!_" It occurs to him that his mask is off, that he is utterly exposed. He tries to calm himself down but the panic has already escalated. Aunt May. Gwen. Jesus, how many people did he just put at risk? What the hell does this guy want?

"You can't _do_ this!" Peter yells. "Whoever the _hell_ you are, you can't just—is anybody even _there?_" Nobody answers. His head sinks down to his chest. "Oh my god," he mutters to himself. He's been left here to die. Everyone he cares about is in danger and he's just going to sit here and _die_. "Oh my god, oh my _god_."

The lights come on so suddenly that Peter gasps, reeling away from the brightness. He can't look up right away, it's so intense. He hears footsteps. It's the man from before, still in his sunglasses. Peter ducks his head to obscure his face, but he knows it's far too late for that.

"What do you want with me?" Peter asks between grit teeth.

The man stares at Peter, or at least seems to—it's hard to tell with his eyes hidden behind dark shades. "You stole something from me," says the man. "You must have, or you wouldn't have these abilities."

Peter shakes his head. "I didn't steal anything," he insists. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

The man ignores him. "I didn't think much of it when I first encountered you. I haven't been in New York for a long time, or I would have known right away. Your abilities are a product of cross-species genetics, of a feat that should be impossible."

Peter stares down at his hands. "People will come looking for me," he says.

"They won't find you," the man says confidently.

Peter sets his eyes on the man. He is in no position of power, but it has to be said. "If you hurt anybody—"

"I can assure you I have no interest in your personal life," the man says, irritated, "so you can save your long-winded hero speech. What I need from you is information."

Peter fidgets uncomfortably under his restraints. "Let me out of these first."

"No."

Peter tries again to free himself to no avail and cries out in frustration. "What the hell did you do to me, anyway? Why can't I get out?"

"I developed a serum that is progressively absorbing itself into your immune system and preventing your cross-species attributes from activating themselves. It should last several hours. Hopefully you will cooperate; I don't think your body will take too kindly to another dosage so quickly."

"It won't matter in several hours," Peter snaps. "I'll be dead. You're the robot expert here, don't you know what's in those lasers?"

"Yes. That is another unfortunate consequence we'll have to face if you fail to give me the information I need."

Peter feels the back of his neck start to sweat. "You're just gonna let me die here," he says in disbelief. "You know I'm not going to tell you anything, so you're just gonna let me die."

The man doesn't answer.

"I didn't do _anything_ to you," Peter yells. "I tried to _help_ you—that's all I've been trying to do, is help, and what do I get? Some crazy guy ties me to a chair and watches me die?" He throws his head back on the chair, nearly toppling it over. "You can't do this!"

"If you could stop behaving like a petulant child, you would realize that it is in both of our best interests for you to be forthcoming about your abilities. You may not realize it, but you are a threat to society, and a threat to yourself and everyone close to you." He paces across the room, staring at the wall. "You're just a boy. You have no idea how to handle these abilities, and you lack the necessary maturity to make wise decisions with them. I've seen you—you're impulsive, thoughtless."

Peter grits his teeth, trying not to retaliate and prove the man right.

"However you obtained these abilities was clearly not by any means sanctioned by OsCorp, which is the only known facility capable of producing formulas cross-species genetics." He walks back toward Peter again. "But even OsCorp doesn't have the technology to create something like you. So tell me how this happened."

"Why do you even care?" Peter snaps. "What's done is done."

"That is not necessarily true. It would be in everyone's best interests, including your own, if I could create a permanent counter-serum to your abilities—"

"No," says Peter, "you _can't_—"

"—and that aside, by knowing how this happened, I could prevent it from happening to another person." He clears his throat. "I acknowledge that while you are reckless and, quite frankly, rather stupid with these abilities of yours, your intentions could be a lot worse. Don't you want to prevent someone with worse intentions from obtaining your abilities?"

Peter flinches as the man draws nearer to him. The man's bottom lip curls up knowingly.

"The Lizard. Dr. Curt Connors. You faced him yourself, didn't you?"

Peter doesn't answer. The man already knows, there's no point.

"Wouldn't you hate to live with the knowledge that you could have prevented a horrific event like that," the man continues, "if you had just told me the truth?"

His bones chill at those words. He looks up at the man searchingly. There is no way he could know about the formula, know way he could know it was Peter who gave it to Dr. Connors. But the way the man's eyes are trained on him, it doesn't matter whether or not the man knows the truth. The guilt ebbs at Peter just the same, and despite himself, he sees that this man might have somewhat of a point.

"I wandered into OsCorp," Peter says lowly. "I wasn't supposed to be in there, in this room with spiders developing biocables. I was just being stupid and poking around. After I left one of the spiders bit me." Peter looks up at him. "And then I turned into _this._ Are you happy?"

The man considers him for a moment. "No," he says. "You're not telling me everything."

Peter tugs at his bindings in frustration. "_What?_ What more do you want?"

"I looked into that night, that very highly publicized showdown between you and the mutant version of Dr. Connors." He stares at Peter as if he is picking apart his brain. "You know more about his transformation than you're telling me."

"No, I don't," says Peter, too quickly.

"Then how else would you know how to stop him? How else did you know how to find an antidote to project across the city?" the man demands.

_Gwen_, thinks Peter, because it is the truth. He did nothing but provide the formula that nearly got everyone killed; she was the one who cleaned up his mess. But he will die sooner than say anything about Gwen's involvement.

"I know for a fact that there is only one man who has developed a formula to create such a thing as that lizard, and that man is long since dead—dead for protecting that formula from ever leaving his hands."

"Richard Parker," Peter says before he can stop himself.

The silence is halting. Peter doesn't breathe. He can't believe he has said something so stupid. It will only be a matter of time before the man connects the dots, and even if he ever lets Peter leave, he will forever know who he is and how to find him. The only peace of mind he has is that the formula is destroyed. Peter made sure that any trace of it left was either burned or deleted from OsCorp records, and he personally found the vials of it that were meant for transport and incinerated them in a biocontainment furnace.

"How do you know that?" the man asks, his voice eerily quiet.

"I don't," Peter stammers. "I just read somewhere—"

"_Impossible!_" the man shouts, loud enough to make Peter cringe away from him. "How do you know that, you tell me, you tell me _right—_" The man suddenly halts, blanching. "Now," he finishes softly.

He stares at Peter for a long time. Peter squirms; it is only a matter of time before the toxins kill him, and every second he wastes is another second closer to his demise. But he doesn't want to set this guy off any more than he already has, not if he has a chance of being let go.

The man mutters something under his breath that sounds like "my God," and then leaves the room.

Peter tries very hard not to panic. He counts to ten. He has to believe that the man will come back, that he is reasonable and won't just leave him here like this. He stops counting at about six, because he can't focus and he's just so frustrated, so angry, so _terrified_ that he just might scream.

Right at the peak of his horror, though, the restraints release him with a neat click. Peter stares down at his hands in disbelief, but only for a moment. He leaps up off the chair, pain ripping through all of his muscles, but he doesn't care. He's _free_.

The man enters the room again.

"You're letting me go?" asks Peter.

"For now."

"No," says Peter, his voice shaking. "Don't leave it like that. You don't get to just shoot me down and kidnap me again. You may think I'm just some snarky kid in a suit, but I have a life, I have to go to school, I have—" _I have people who worry about me,_ he thinks, but he doesn't want to admit that and give the man any leverage. "If you want to get in touch with me again, you do it like a civil human being. I did _nothing_ to deserve what you just did to me."

The man doesn't say anything, but he nods just slightly, enough that Peter knows that they've reached some sort of fragile understanding between them.

"You should know," says the man. "It's Wednesday."

"_What?_" asks Peter incredulously.

"I kept you unconscious until I developed the serum. You've been here for four days."

"But the lasers—"

"I injected an antidote shortly after the attack," the man says curtly.

"And the robots—?"

"Taken care of," the man says. "For the time being."

Peter doesn't want to push his luck by asking the man to elaborate. Really, more than anything in the world, he just wants to get as far away from this place as he possibly can. He'll deal with the rest later.

"My mask," he asks quietly, seeing it dangling in the man's hand.

He hands it to Peter without any hesitation, but his hand lingers in the air for a moment after Peter takes it, and he seems to watch Peter put it on with an uncomfortable scrutiny. Peter wonders if he is trying to memorize his face.

"I meant what I said before," says the man. "Stay out of this."

The man has said this to him numerous times, but this time is different. It almost sounds like he is concerned for Peter's well-being. Peter wonders if this man knew his father well, because it is the only explanation he can think of for this radical change of heart.

Peter walks toward the door without answering. They both know he isn't going to stay out of it no matter how many times the man asks.

"Once you leave, take the staircase to your left, and it will lead you to the street," the man instructs him. "The next time I request your presence, you'll know where to find me."

Peter almost laughs at the absurdity of it, but he's too exhausted. "Alrighty, then," he says. The door slams behind him. Peter shuts his eyes and wonders, not for the first time, if he has blown his cover and put his entire little world in danger. But something unexpected gnaws at him, fighting his better judgment, and he decides tentatively to trust the man for the time being. Right now he's the closest thing to an ally Peter has.

* * *

So. Guys. Tonight's my birthday party. My apartment is about to be packed. But then I remembered I hadn't updated-remembered that I made a promise to update every day-and so I, like Peter, dragged my tulle-covered princess sparkly butt (yes, I'm 21 and this is a tea time princess themed party) over to the computer amidst this amazing impending chaos, just to update this story and KEEP THAT PROMISE.

Because I love you guys.


	12. Chapter 12

**Lying Heart**

* * *

It's completely light when he wanders out in the street, Peter guesses sometime in the afternoon. Before he can even make an attempt to reorient himself, though, he sees people all over the streets pointing with wide, disbelieving eyes and he figures it's in his immediate best interest to get out of here as soon as he can.

Predictably, the man took his biocable devices away from him—not that it matters, without his abilities. He forgot what it was like to be plain old Peter Parker, and now that he is again, he decides he really doesn't like it. He looks up briefly toward the sky that so often has beckoned him and he has never felt more uncomfortable just standing on solid ground. It feels like he is trapped.

He ducks into an alley. He is basically no better than the fools who go around dressing up as Spiderman at night—in fact, he looks even stupider, being out here in broad daylight. He has no street clothes, either. The last he saw, his backpack was still out on Gwen's fire escape.

Gwen. A week ago he wouldn't have hesitated to call her to come get him—after all, she is the only one who knows his secret and won't be too shocked to pick him up in a full-on Spidey suit. But he is certain that if she was mad before, now she is most certainly pissed beyond measure. He said he would wait outside her window and then disappeared for four days.

Oh, God. Aunt May. That's the first issue Peter addresses: he finds a payphone and calls collect.

"Hello?"

Her voice is so strained on the other end that Peter feels his chest constrict with guilt.

"Hey, Aunt May."

"Peter," she breathes. He hears her stumble the phone on the other end and imagines her attempting to collect herself. "Peter, are you alright? Where are you? Tell me where you are, I'll come get you right now, what _happened?_"

"I'm, uh." He looks up but he can't find any street signs right away.

"Are you alright?" she asks again.

He nods, then realizes she can't see him. "Yeah, I'm alright," he says tiredly. He really isn't, though. Physically he should be fine. He is just an ordinary teenage boy with a few non life-threatening injuries that will heal over time. But that's just it—Peter doesn't want to be ordinary. Peter doesn't want to be powerless. For the first time since he was bitten by that spider, Peter genuinely feels shaken, maybe even afraid.

"I'll come get you right now. Tell me where you are."

He considers telling her that he'll take care of it, but he's standing at a payphone in a Spiderman suit with no abilities and half of New York gawking at him, and really, the idea of trekking all the way to Queens with no money to buy so much as a subway ticket is more than he can handle right now.

Reluctantly, he reads off the intersection, making a mental note to remember it himself. He should know where to find this man later.

"You sit tight. I have to make a few phone calls but I'll be right there."

"Who are you calling?" asks Peter. He doesn't have any other family besides her.

There's a beat. "The school," says Aunt May. "After the first two days they insisted on reporting you as a missing person. I'll have to call them, and then the police, to let them know you've been found."

"Jesus," he mutters.

"Peter Parker," she says reflexively.

He thunks his head against the payphone and lets himself lean there, his eyes shut. "I'm really sorry," he says. His throat tightens so suddenly that he doesn't understand what is happening to him—it's been so long since he has cried that the feeling is almost foreign to him. He crushes it back, stifles it into nothing, willing his voice not to crack. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I know," says Aunt May. She sucks in a breath and Peter can practically hear the tears in her eyes. "It's alright. You're alright."

* * *

There's a minimart near the intersection selling cheap sweatshirts and sweatpants. Peter doesn't have any money, but he tries to appeal to the guy behind the counter for an exchange: his Spiderman suit in exchange for him covering the cost of the sweats.

"No way, man," says the cashier. "That looks nothing like the real thing."

"What?" Peter asks, incredulous. He shakes his head. "Okay, for the record, it looks _exactly_ like the real thing, and that aside—"

"And it's all torn up. Look, there's like, tears in the spandex, right there, and there, and there. What the hell, man, you think I'm an idiot?"

"It makes it authentic," Peter says, aware that he is now spewing total bullshit, but so desperate for a change of clothes that he is willing to grovel. "You'll never find a more authentic suit than this, not for the price of a ten dollar sweatshirt and pants set."

The cashier shakes his head. "Come on, man."

Peter doesn't budge. "Take it or leave it."

The sweatpants are about five sizes too large and horrendous looking. He catches his reflection in the window—he looks like a disheveled mustard-colored gangster, swimming in fabric so plentiful that even if he rolled up the pants multiple times, they'd still touch the sidewalk. It doesn't matter—Aunt May recognizes him right away, pulling over the beat up compact car and slamming the brakes so noisily that even hardened New Yorkers look up in alarm.

As soon as he sees her he is certain he might just start crying on the sidewalk. He has never felt this pathetic, this vulnerable, this _stupid_ in his whole life. She embraces him and he holds his breath so he won't let out a sob.

"I—I can't," Peter tries to explain to her when he doesn't hug her back. She pulls away and looks at him and he has to blink, hard, or else he's going to erupt. "I can't," he says again.

She nods solemnly. There's a sadness too deep in her eyes for him to measure. "Let's get you home."

* * *

He showers for almost half an hour. It feels like he does everything too slowly without his abilities—even a stupid task like opening the shampoo bottle seems infinitely more mundane than it did before. He probably scrubs himself clean two or three times, he can't quite remember, but he just feels grimy from head to toe.

Four days. Four _days_ he was locked up in a basement, unconscious. That man had enough time to research Peter and know and understand him better than Peter does himself. The idea of it makes Peter's skin crawl. He is bone-tired but doesn't think he'll ever sleep again.

Aunt May calls him down to dinner. The pair of them sit there in silence for a long while. Peter knows he should be ravenous after four days of who knows what, but he can only stomach a few bites and push the rest of it around on his plate.

"You're not going to tell me what happened," Aunt May says.

Peter sets his fork down. "I love you, Aunt May," he says, choosing his words carefully. "But I'm going to turn eighteen next month, and I'm going to move out."

Her eyes flash. It is clear that she wasn't expecting this. "You can't _possibly_ be thinking of moving out," she protests, "you haven't even finished high school—"

"I've already made up my mind," Peter says, as gently as he can under the circumstances. He looks up at her pleadingly, willing her to understand. "I'm not asking for permission. I'm just making sure you understand that—" Peter pauses for a moment, trying to say it just right before he makes any promises that he can't keep. "I'm just making sure that you understand that I'm always close by. That I won't be a stranger. But I just can't be here anymore."

She shakes her head. "No," she says, "you can't just leave. Peter—this year, it's just—your _uncle —_"

What little food is in his stomach churns unsettlingly. They almost never talk about Uncle Ben.

"You can't just leave, too," says Aunt May, her cheeks starting to redden, her fork shaking in her hands. "You can't just leave me here by myself, I don't even know what I'd do."

"Aunt May—"

"I don't _care_ what your reasons are. You can do what you want after high school," she says, with an authority and finality that he has never heard from her in his entire life, "but until then, eighteen or not, you are _staying right here._"

Peter shakes his head. He has to get this over with, has to convince her that he's going through with it, because he doesn't want to break her heart when his birthday rolls around and he leaves anyway.

Before he can think of another thing to say, she abruptly stands up, rattling the contents of the table. Peter is thrown off by this gesture. Rarely has his aunt ever towered over him.

"Do you _understand_ me?" she demands.

He thinks she'll eventually tire of this and drop the discussion, but she stares at him, her eyes steely and unrecognizable, refusing to let it go.

"Okay," Peter says so quietly he isn't even sure if she hears him, but it seems to be enough, because she takes a deep breath and sits back in her chair. Another long silence ensues. Peter takes a bite of the meatloaf just to keep himself occupied in the uncomfortable stillness. It is tasteless and grainy and he wishes he hadn't even bothered.

"That girl," says Aunt May. "You need to call her."

Peter's head shoots up from his plate. "What girl?" he asks, even though he knows full well what girl.

"Gwen. She came by here Tuesday, looking for you, you know."

Peter reddens. "She did?"

Aunt May nods. "She was a wreck. I didn't pry, but it seems that the two of you had some sort of fight before you disappeared—tell me if I'm wrong."

Peter bites his lip and stares down at his lap. "Uh," he says. "No, we did, a little bit."

She raises an eyebrow at him and Peter's face burns even hotter. "It was stupid," he mumbles. "Something just really stupid, and I tried to apologize," he says, before his aunt can chastise him. "I did apologize. But then …"

Aunt May reaches across the table and touches his hand. "I'm sure she's forgiven you for whatever it was. Now go call her and let her know you're alright."

Peter excuses himself from the table. He doesn't mention that his cell phone is god only knows where, because there's a landline in his room and there's a chance he'll find his phone eventually. If he ever gets his abilities back, that is.

He pushes the other worries aside for the time being and dials her number, which he has had memorized since the day she gave it to him. She picks up on the first ring.

"Hello?"

* * *

So the tea party was a wild success! I mean, at some point somebody definitely hid my computer so I'd stop Pandora-ing country's Top 40, but other than that, wild success. Speaking of, I don't know if anyone's heard that Kenny Chesney song "Come Over," but if you listen to the lyrics, it's like, MADE for Gwen and Peter: "I told you I wouldn't call/Told you I wouldn't care/But baby, climbing the walls gets me nowhere"

CLIMBING. THE WALLS. Just like Spiderman. I mean guys. Someone's gotta call Kenny and tell him the jig is up. Because he is obviously fanficking Spiderman through song. Or he just likes to climb walls for fun, who knows.


	13. Chapter 13

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Gwen's voice on the other end of the phone is raspier than usual, but the sound of it is precious to him, like something that belongs to him—he's the only one who ever hears her voice this way. Hearing her say hello is such a relief that for a moment he can't even remember that he's supposed to talk.

"Gwen," he says, "it's uh … it's me."

He hears a sharp intake of breath. Several seconds pass before he hears a very quiet, "Peter?"

That feeling rises up in his chest again—the throat-tightening, fist-curling feeling that makes the back of his eyes burn. There are a million more appropriate things for him to say, but the only thing that comes out is, "Can I come over?"

"Yes," she says, and he can tell that she's been crying, that she's started all over again. "Yes, please, come over."

"Is, um—right now? Is right now okay?"

"Yeah, right now's good, right now's perfect," she stammers.

"Okay," says Peter, "I'm coming over right now." He stares at the spot in his closet where he usually hides his suit. He'd be more concerned about the time it will take to make a new one, but without his abilities it's significantly less of a concern than it would usually be. Right now it's only inconvenient because it's going to take him forever to get to Gwen's.

"I'll be here," says Gwen.

"It might be a little while. Something … I'm not really sure. I have to talk to you about some stuff, a lot of weird stuff, with the robots and OsCorp and—in the meantime, I'm coming on foot, so it's gonna be a little while," he says again, "if you don't mind waiting."

"I'll be here," she says, firmer this time. Peter may be overanalyzing, but it seems to him like her way of apologizing for shutting the blinds on him over the weekend.

Peter tells Aunt May where he's going. She offers him the car, but he doesn't want to drive—he keeps thinking of the recent attacks, and how the people in cars were sitting ducks, and now that he doesn't have even a hint of his abilities working he decides he would rather be safe and underground and spare himself the anxiety.

The F train takes forty minutes to get to Manhattan. Peter usually takes this opportunity to doze, but he stays wide awake, feeling oddly vulnerable. He never used to be jumpy on the train, even way before his abilities, but now that he has been stripped of them he suddenly feels as if everyone can take one look at him and tell he is an easy target. He takes quick, careful glances at everyone in his particular subway car. Everyone looks pretty subdued. Rush hour has long since passed, and besides, most of the traffic would be headed in the opposite direction.

It takes a little while to hike to Gwen's apartment as well. He lets the doorman search his bag—he has nothing to hide this time—then enters the lobby, to use Gwen's elevator for the first time.

"Parker? Is that you?"

Peter swivels in the lobby to face Richard.

"Hey," he says awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.

"Man, I don't know where you've been or what happened to you, but the whole school's been talking about it. What the hell went down?" asks Richard.

"It's … a long story," Peter says carefully. He knows he needs a better excuse than this, especially before he goes to school tomorrow. Otherwise there is always the small chance that someone will see the holes in his story and match them to the disappearance of Spiderman over the last few days, and that's the last thing Peter needs. But right now he's so thrown off by the unexpected appearance of Richard—thrown off, and angry, even, because Peter imagined that he was still important enough to Gwen that she wouldn't be seeing Richard tonight, under the circumstances.

"Come on, man," Richard presses. "What happened? Did you, like, run away or something?"

"What?" Peter scowls. "No, I didn't run away—"

"It's just, Gwen's been bent all out of shape," Richard says, looking somewhat defensive. "I don't like seeing her upset." He looks down at his immaculately tied shoes. "You know, I didn't really think you knew each other all that well, and here she was, like, freaking out. She never even mentioned you before."

Peter purses his lips and tries very hard not to be offended.

"We both just … really love science," Peter says by way of explanation.

"Whatever, man," says Richard. Peter takes this as a cue to head toward the elevator. "Don't bother trying to see her, she's not home. I just went up and her mom said she's out studying at a coffee place somewhere."

Peter's back is turned to Richard, so he allows himself the tiniest of smirks. Once he has composed himself, he says, "Oh, I didn't realize. Maybe I'll catch her tomorrow."

"Yeah," says Richard, looking justifiably suspicious. "You know. At school."

"Or I'll just swing by here after," says Peter as casually as he can. Maybe he's trying to push the golden boy's buttons just a little bit, maybe he's just trying to rattle him in the only petty way he can think of. To Peter's satisfaction, it works—Richard's eyes narrow at him in response.

"Gwen and I are studying tomorrow."

Peter nods. "I'm sure the two of you get a lot of studying done."

Richard laughs an airy, impatient kind of laugh. "What's your problem, man?"

Peter puts his hands up. "I don't have a problem."

Richard looks like he's going to snap back at Peter, but a few moments later he straightens up and seems to compose himself, playing the role of the better man. "It doesn't matter," he says slowly, almost smugly, as if he is talking to someone much less experienced than he is. "Gwen and I are dating and I trust her."

This is all the confirmation Peter needs that Richard considers him a threat. And for some reason this makes him feel exceptionally pleased with himself.

Once Richard leaves, Peter takes the elevator up anyway, knocking at the door. He hears feet scurry to the door, hears a declarative yell from one of her little brothers that the guy who doesn't know how to eat branzino is here, hears the familiar click-clack of Gwen's high heeled boots before she swings the door open so fast that her loose hair flies behind her back.

"Peter," she says, grabbing his hand and dragging him inside before he can even react. She makes a beeline for her room, shoving past her brothers and shooting compulsive worried glances behind her at Peter as if she is afraid he might disappear. She practically pushes him into her room and slams the door behind them.

Then they stand there. There is a good six feet of distance between the two of them. Gwen leans against the door, her hand still on the knob, her breathing as choppy and uneven as someone who has just finished a marathon. Peter stares at her as her face crumples in various stages: first it's her eyes, which seem to dart from his shoes to his face to his mid-section back to his face, searching him, making sure he's real; then it's her nose, the way it scrunches just the slightest bit, as if she is desperately trying to ward off tears; then it's her entire complexion, the redness in her cheeks, the way she can't stop her lip from quivering downward, until finally she takes a step forward and takes a deep, resolute breath of air.

"I'm sorry, Peter," she bursts unexpectedly, "I'm so sorry. I should have—I _shouldn't_ have—last Sunday, what I did to you, I—"

"Gwen," he says, startled at her sudden upset. While he is relieved beyond words that she isn't mad at him anymore, he didn't come here for an apology. He takes her outburst as permission to take a few steps toward her, to bridge the gap. "You had every right. I was such a _dick_, I can't even believe I—"

"No," Gwen cuts him off. "_No._"

She turns her back on him then, and it's clear that she is trying to collect herself and doesn't want him to see. He doesn't say a word. In the past he imagines how he would have stepped toward her, how he would have pulled her close by her shoulders, how he would have held her and contained her so she wouldn't fall apart.

"It's just that I—of all people—I should know better," she says in a small voice, without turning around to face him. "My dad. Every day he left for work, and even if I was so mad at him I wanted to scream, I told him I loved him. Every day. Because I always knew—that if something _happened_ to him, and the last thing I said to him was—"

Peter feels all the blood rush out of his face. "_Gwen_," he interrupts, because he is so overwhelmed by this that he can't think of anything else to say. He hates to think of her worrying about him, hates to think that the thought of him reminds her of the father she only very recently lost, hates to think that he is the cause of so much pain in her life when honestly all he has wanted is to keep her alive, to keep her safe. He doesn't want to serve as a constant reminder of all the pain and loss she has endured. He can't handle the burden of that guilt on top of the guilt he feels for everything else.

"You know," Gwen presses. "You have to know that I—that I didn't mean it, that I—"

"Gwen, I know, of course I know, and I knew back then," Peter insists. "You and me," he says, instantly cringing at his choice of words. He stares at her, trying to find the words to express himself, but grasping at nothing but dead air between his ears. "We're not just—of course I wouldn't think that just because of one fight—"

"But that's just it," she says, finally turning around to look at him. She isn't crying, but she looks close to it; her eyes are red-rimmed, as if she has cried plenty of times in the last few days already. "It was so stupid, it wasn't even worth being mad anymore, and then you—" She stops mid-sentence, mouth slightly agape. "What on _earth_ happened to you, Peter?"

Peter looks away from her, toward the window. He clears his throat. "I, uh," he starts, less than eloquently. He presses a hand to his forehead, trying to focus, trying to think of a way to explain this without sounding completely and totally pathetic, because just the thought of waking up powerless in those restraints makes his throat tighten up again. "Well. It was. It's just. Sorry," he stammers, looking up at her just fleetingly, and the lingering hurt in both of their eyes is so raw that he thinks that maybe they're both just one tiny disaster away from losing their minds.

"Hey," says Gwen gently.

He supposes it's meant to calm him down, to make him feel comfortable or safe, and the problem is it's working. The problem is that he wants to tell her everything, wants to spill his guts out and tell her how awful he feels, not just about the shame and the fear he has endured the last few days, but about everything he has done to her.

But he _can't_. It's not fair to her. She told him once that this wasn't his job, wasn't his responsibility, and the same is true for her. She can't be the one he runs to when he needs someone to pick up the pieces. He knows in his heart that it's wrong.

"We can just sit here," she says. He looks up and sees she is sitting on her bed. Her eyes are wide and understanding and patient. He stands there, feeling lost, wondering how he even got here in the first place. "We can just sit here for now, you can tell me later."

"Alright," he says, almost without awareness. His feet seem to move of their own will toward her and he sits beside her, feeling the mattress give way slightly under their weight.

Gwen shifts slightly, leaning against the pillows on the headboard, and Peter follows her. Their bodies stretch the length of the bed and they're half-laying, half-sitting side by side. There is only about a foot of distance between them, but Peter lays there, his whole chest aching for her, and it feels like a thousand miles.

They lay like that side-by-side for a long time, listening to each other breathe, until it happens: he doesn't know whose hand moves first, or who even initiates it, but their fingers intertwine and lock. For the first time since he left his captor's basement, Peter closes his eyes and feels some form of okay again.

* * *

I had to let them be cute for like a second.

Also it's a shame you don't earn money writing fanfiction, because I'm seeing the movie so many times that I'm basically broke. Like, I heard they earned 35 million their opening weekend, and I'm pretty sure I'm responsible for at least 34 million of that. It doesn't help that I bought myself a Spiderman fleecy blanket and matching water bottle. I just. Need to hide my wallet somewhere. I wonder if they make Spiderman wallets!

NO. Somebody stop meeee.


	14. Chapter 14

**Lying Heart**

* * *

The next morning when Peter wakes up for school, he puts the tiniest bit of pressure on the doorknob, to see if it will give way under his hand. Nothing. He squeezes it a little harder, then immediately feels foolish, standing at his door and squeezing a doorknob for all it's worth. It's very clear that his abilities have not returned. Peter exhales loudly in frustration, letting the doorknob go with an unnecessarily loud clatter.

He said _hours_. He said Peter's abilities would be back within _hours_. Either the man was lying, or he was a complete and total idiot, but none of Peter's speculation changes the fact that he is now utterly useless.

He considers going back to the basement after school to demand that the man explain exactly what it was he did to Peter, but the idea of going back there so soon makes him uneasy, and besides that he promised Gwen they could go somewhere and talk about what happened over the few days he was gone.

As he heads out the door for school, he tries without much success to assure himself that it's alright to let Spiderman lay low for awhile. Not only has he not had enough time to construct a new suit, but everyone seems to be fairly certain that Spiderman is either missing or dead, after the past week of him being nowhere in sight. Nobody is expecting much of him under the circumstances—and, to Peter's relief, nothing in the papers reports anything about more about robot attacks. He hopes for now that that is the end of it.

Once he reaches school Peter realizes that it's the last day before Christmas break. It's an absurd reason for him to cheer up slightly—he isn't a very religious person, and with his highly-logical, scientifically-driven parents, he stopped believing in Santa and magic when he was five years old—but something about the idea of the holidays makes everything seem a little less terrible. Students are wearing Santa hats and reindeer headbands, all the girls are carting around baked goods and wrapped presents, and during more than one of his classes the teacher puts on a holiday-themed movie and leaves them to their own devices.

Most of the students skip out, but Peter kind of likes sitting here in the dark eating up the government's tax dollars by watching _It's a Wonderful Life_ during his free track with Gwen sitting in front of him. At some point he watches her nod off slightly, then catch herself and jerk her head up. This happens a few times, until he's fairly certain she has fallen asleep.

The lights snap on and Gwen doesn't lift her head up. Peter tries not to laugh because he doesn't want to call any attention to her.

He leans in close to her desk. He has forgotten what this was like—the weird, unexpected thrill of seeing Gwen at school. He remembers the moments he would see her before she would see him, and he'd catch a glimpse of her deep in thought in a hallway, or reading a book, or opening her locker. He loved these moments because he got to see the way her face lit up when he came into her line of sight, the way she smiled this goofy little smile, the kind he knew was exclusively for him.

She's so pretty, sitting there with her eyes closed, her cheeks jammed against her propped up hands. He wants to tuck the loose hair falling in her face behind her ear, or kiss the top of her head. Instead he says gently, "Gwen."

She frowns a little bit in her sleep.

He touches one of her arms. The feeling is electrifying. "Hey, Gwen," he says a little louder.

She opens her eyes just slightly, barely perceiving him. She smiles that goofy little smile he knows so well. And then she jerks up in her seat and says, "Oh, shit! Did I—"

"Miss Stacy," says the teacher warningly from the front of the room.

Peter is practically holding his breath trying not to laugh. Gwen swats him, grinning, and says, "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"What do you think I was just doing?" he asks, unable to suppress the laughter any longer.

"Class is _over _now, mister helpful," she drawls, grabbing her books from her bag. "What are you even doing in here, anyway?"

"Free track," says Peter. "And I like this movie."

"You had a free track at the end of the day, and instead of going home you sat through half of _It's a Wonderful Life?_" Gwen asks. When Peter responds by grinning cheekily, she rolls her eyes and says, "You've never been quite right in the head, have you, Peter Parker?"

The way she says it is so familiar and natural that Peter stops short for a moment. It's been so long since he's felt this kind of ease with her, this teasing back and forth exchange that they had even before they knew each other all that well. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he isn't supposed to be talking to her like this, but right now he doesn't care. Right now he isn't Spiderman—he couldn't be Spiderman even if he tried. And for the first time since his abilities stopped working, Peter feels some sense of relief, as if the burden of the promise he made to the captain has been temporarily lifted.

It doesn't count, he assures himself. It doesn't count because for however long this lasts, Gwen isn't in danger, because the danger simply does not exist.

"I know what's wrong with you," says Peter as-a-matter-of-factly as they leave the classroom.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "And that is?"

"You need caffeine."

She wrinkles her nose. "I hate coffee."

"You do?" Peter shuffles awkwardly, backtracking when he realizes he's missed his locker.

"With a passion."

"Oh," he says, putting his books away, feeling a slightly embarrassed heat creep up in his face. He hides the evidence by burying himself further into his locker.

"Oh!" She perks up. "You wanted to get coffee or something?"

He opens his mouth to speak but swallows reflexively first, in a less than slick fashion. "I mean, you hate coffee, but yeah, I mean, if you want to." Peter clears his throat. "You could always get, like, a high fructose maccacinno-whatever it's called. Those big chocolatey things."

"They _do _have those fancy Christmas cups at Starbucks," Gwen muses.

"That should have been the hard sell," says Peter. He shuts his locker door and stands there for a moment, and asks cautiously, "You're sure you don't have anywhere else to be?"

"No," says Gwen immediately, "I'm all set. Starbucks down the street?"

"Yeah," says Peter, grinning so widely a cut on his lip splits open. He swipes at it, but doesn't care all that much, really—he's too busy imagining Richard calling Gwen's cell phone, imagining him leaving her a string of clingy text messages and showing up at her door only to be turned away because Gwen isn't home. Peter is still fully aware that she and Richard were supposed to study together today, even if Gwen doesn't mention it, and the idea of him wondering where she is and who she is with makes him a lot happier than it probably should.

Gwen orders a hot chocolate and Peter orders a coffee with extra caffeine shots in it. He still hasn't slept since he got back from the ordeal. They sidle into a booth tucked away toward the back, and the moment after they both sit down they look up at each other, and Peter can't help the crooked smile on his face.

For the first half hour or so they talk about their Christmas plans. Gwen tells him she is traveling further upstate to visit some of her mom's relatives between Christmas and New Year's. She tells him about how impossible it is to Christmas shop for three brothers and a mother with such fickle taste in everything. She tells him that she's been so busy lately that she hasn't even had a chance to window shop on the impressive strip of Christmas department store displays.

Peter doesn't have as many plans or people to shop for. He tells her how he and Aunt May watch all the same movies every year and try to make their own popcorn, which inevitably ends up burning beyond edibility and setting off their deafening fire alarm. He tells her about their matching Christmas socks, and she laughs at him so loud that people turn around to stare.

What neither of them says, however, are the things that will occupy them the most over the holidays: the loss of Uncle Ben and Gwen's father. It's only been a few months, and while the grief has become easier to squelch as time passes, Peter knows the holidays will usher in a whole new wave of sadness and nostalgia. He knows Gwen is feeling the same way, and he wonders why they don't say anything about since they are the only two people who could possibly understand each other's pain, but he thinks that maybe that's just it—they understand each other's pain, and so they understand that it's better to just not say anything about it at all.

When they reach an appropriate pause in the small talk, Peter stares down at his half-empty coffee and says, "About the past few days."

Gwen sits patiently and waits for him to continue.

"I'm not really sure where to start, actually," he says. "But I guess … well, you knew about the lasers, and the antidote." He looks up and she nods at him, motioning for him to continue. "Is there anything else you can tell me about them?"

She sighs. "I would have already, if I could," she says, sounding disappointed. "The only reason I even knew in the first place was because my initial internship post at OsCorp was in the weapons lab, and I remember their development was a really big deal at the time."

"But how did you—how did you even _know_ that those were the lasers on the robot?"

She shrugs, making a face. "I've generally come to find that when you can imagine a worst case scenario with giant robots, you're never really that far from the mark." She swirls a spoon in her cup. "In all honesty, though, I saw a design laid out for a military-grade artificial intelligence project that looked eerily like the one in the picture. The project was either scrapped or sent somewhere deeper into OsCorp personnel before I transferred departments, because I never heard anything about it again." She smirks a little bit. "I don't think I was even supposed to see the plans in the first place—you're not the only OsCorp sleuth, you know."

"I'm surprised at you, Gwen," he says. "Shocked, even."

When he meets her eyes he sees her expression is serious. "I've been looking into it, you know," she says. "I haven't found anything yet, but even OsCorp can't keep information buried like that forever. I'm trying to find anything connected to the project—names, records, designs, anything that could help, but so far nothing has surfaced."

Peter can't help but smile at her. He knows he would do the same for her if their situations were reversed, but he can't help but feel touched by the gesture. "Thank you, Gwen."

She pushes her headband back self-consciously. "Don't thank me. I haven't found anything helpful at all."

"I mean it. Thanks." He drops his eyes, before their gaze gets too intense.

"Peter," she says, her voice quieter. "Are you going to tell me what happened this past week?"

He thought it would be easier to talk about it here in a crowded place, where he has nothing real to fear and a room full of people to prevent him from getting overly-emotional when he's talking about it, but suddenly it's all wrong, being here in this cheery, bustling place and admitting the humiliation of his capture. He crunches his empty coffee cup in his hands.

"You, uh. You wanted to look at the display windows, right?" Peter asks. "We should go. I mean, I want to, if you still want to, and you've got time, and everything. Do you want to—do you think you—"

"Sure," she says. The look in her eyes makes it very clear that she hasn't dropped the subject, but for now she picks up the remnants of her hot chocolate and tosses it in the trash. "I'd love that."

They walk down the street together, their cheeks pinched and their hands jammed into their jacket pockets, and even though Peter knows that this isn't ideal by a long shot, even though he knows he knows that it is only a matter of time before reality crashes back in, he will settle for this. He will settle for this suddenly blissful, happy idea of normal, because he knows that once his abilities kick back in, he will never have it again.

* * *

Y'all owe this chapter to my littlest sister. I was so freaking excited to get off work and see Spiderman in theaters again but on my way out the door I received a frantic call reminding me of my update duties. She also says she just bought me a Spiderman duct tape roll and notebook. I've got some awesome sisters (the other is TOTALLY saving my ass on writer's block, but more praise for her to come later when we get to the parts she is responsible for).

So here it is, folks. I'm off to drool at Andrew some more. BYE.


	15. Chapter 15

**Lying Heart**

* * *

The next week feels a bit like living in a dream—in a stolen idea of what his life would be like without abilities, without overwhelming, life-altering promises to keep and the fate of an entire city on his skinny shoulders. Peter spends his days feeling like a stranger, like a happier, more colorful version of himself. The weather is cold, but not unbearable. The entire city is teeming with excited tourists and holiday shoppers. He gets to spend his days off of school Christmas shopping with Gwen and his nights actually eating civil, uninterrupted dinners with his aunt.

Most importantly, there are no major attacks following the incident the week before. No reason for Spiderman to be slinging around the city, no reason for Peter to put himself and everyone he loves at risk.

Which is good. Because his abilities still have not returned.

Peter is aware he should be more concerned, especially now that the condition seems to be a permanent one, but he isn't. He feels punch drunk. Giddy. He submits his portfolio for review at Empire State, he gets a fantastic mid-term report card, and even throws in a college application for their rigorous academic program as well. He embraces normalcy with a fervor. He imagines himself, just Peter Parker, a college student with a pretty girlfriend and a stable future, the kind where he and Gwen move in together and have nice, normal lives, and matching dishware, and an old-fashioned radio that doesn't pick up police frequencies; where Aunt May can finally retire and live in a little house in New Jersey but always comes to visit twice a week; where Peter lives up to everyone's expectations, instead of always just falling short every time.

It's a pipe dream. He knows it. This calm cannot last forever, and he knows that if this goes on much longer, he'll have to brave that basement and find some way to obtain his abilities again. But it's going to be Christmas soon, and Peter finds that the closer it gets to the holidays, the easier it gets to push back the gnawing anxiety and let himself fall into a dangerously normal routine.

One day he and Gwen are in a department store, helping each other with some last minute shopping, when Peter says as casually as he can, "Where is Richard, anyway?"

Gwen bites her lip, examining the texture of a display scarf. "Skiing," she says. She holds up the scarf. "What about this one? Does your aunt wear a lot of blue?"

"Skiing where?"

"Some place where there's snow, I'd imagine," she says wryly, still holding up the scarf.

"I don't know. It's kind of tacky."

"Skiing?"

"No, the scarf."

"Old women love tacky," Gwen protests.

Peter raises an eyebrow. "I can't wait to tell my aunt you called her an old woman."

She swats the air with the scarf playfully, then sets it back on the shelf. It's clear that the conversation about Richard has been dropped. Peter doesn't mind—he doesn't want to talk about Richard at all, but it doesn't change the fact that Richard exists, and will inevitably pry his way back into Gwen's life when he returns. Peter knows Richard must be getting anxious. Gwen's phone buzzes an awful lot, and even though she claims it's her mom or her brothers or one of her friends, Peter knows it must be him, and can't help the small triumph he feels when she sticks her phone back in her backpack without answering it.

"Speaking of missing people," says Gwen. She doesn't continue for a moment, looking a bit hesitant. She lowers her voice so the people milling around the store won't overhear and says, "Where's Spiderman these days?"

Peter's shoulders shift uncomfortably. He looks around at the other shoppers, fully aware that they can't hear and that they wouldn't care even if they could, but he needs a moment to think of what to say.

"My suit," he finally says. "I need to—I've gotta make a new one. And it takes time, you know? Just a lot of … spandex manipulation, and measuring, and time."

"Uh-huh," says Gwen. "But—I don't know, it's been, like, three days since you've been back, and—"

"I thought you didn't even like me being Spiderman," Peter says, somewhat snappishly, forgetting to keep his voice down.

"I don't," says Gwen, looking surprised by his reaction but thankfully not too offended. "I really don't, I was just curious, is all."

"Sorry," Peter mumbles. He looks up and tries to smile at her. She isn't the one he's frustrated with. She smiles back at him easily, a quiet little forgiveness, and they start walking again, this time toward the sports equipment section to shop for her brothers.

Halfway through determining the difference between a wooden and aluminum baseball bat, Gwen says, "I could help you, you know." When Peter looks up at her in confusion, she elaborates, "You know, with the suit."

"Oh," Peter says, not quite sure what to make of it.

She misinterprets his silence, because she adds quickly, "You're right, I'm sure you've got a whole plan and layouts and stuff like that, and all I've got is, like, a semester of home ec that I pretty much failed after I set off all the fire alarms, but I was just thinking, if you needed the company or an extra set of hands—"

"Sure," says Peter, "yeah, no, that would be great. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Yeah," she agrees. "Your place?"

For some reason the idea of Gwen in his bedroom feels a lot like crossing the line he has been tiptoeing by all week. But he trusts himself, and he trusts Gwen, and he knows that they are levelheaded enough not to do anything stupid, especially since she is very publicly dating someone else.

It's Aunt May Peter is concerned about.

"Sure," Peter says before he even really has a chance to think of the consequences.

* * *

The next day Peter finds himself sitting on the floor of his bedroom perilously close to one Gwen Stacy. Hours before, when she entered, she seemed to take an unnecessarily long sweep of the room, taking it all in; Peter had shamefacedly acknowledged old posters of bands that he'd had pasted up on his walls since middle school, the less than orderly pile of dirty clothes he had shoved at the mouth of his closet, and the stupid desktop screen, which still featured a blatantly obvious debate team picture enhanced to see Gwen and Gwen alone.

He focuses on his tape measure and another yard of spandex, trying not to let himself think about it much more, before his face turns bright red again. Gwen, to her credit, keeps the conversation light.

"So how do you design the front pattern, anyway?" she asks.

This is an easy question, a harmless one, the kind he is happy to answer. "I designed the logo on the computer," he says, "and then used the pattern to carve out the design on a metal slab. When you heat it up and put the dyed spandex under it for just the right amount of time, it ends up like … well, like the Spiderman suit, if all goes well. I'll show you, I left it in the basement."

Gwen traces her fingers along a strip of some of the unfinished spandex. "It's weird," she muses. "Spiders. Being like, the thing that defines you." She looks up at Peter and says in mock seriousness, "I don't know what to do when I find a spider in my room anymore. Is it disloyal to smush it?"

Peter looks at her with somber eyes. "Every time I sense a spider die at the hand of a skinny blonde girl a small part of my soul is crushed."

"I'm humane about it," she protests. "I use the most interesting magazines in my room to swat them." She gets up and stretches her arms out. "That spider should be glad its last moments on earth were spent speculating about whether or not Katie Holmes is pregnant."

"Who's that?" Peter asks absent-mindedly.

She doesn't answer and since Peter doesn't really care he doesn't look up from his measurements and doesn't notice Gwen hovering over the clutter on his desk. A few minutes pass that require his complete and total focus, because if he messes up the curve of this cut then the entire suit ends up asymmetrical and the emblem won't be centered on his chest. Once he's finally satisfied with the cut, he looks up at Gwen looking over his desk papers and his eyes grow wide.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, leaping up from the floor.

She has found all the old copies of the portfolio work. His first instinct is to snatch them from her—he doesn't want her to see, and he can't explain to her why. The photos he has been taking out in the streets at night as Spiderman seem so separate and removed from Gwen. Finding the subjects for his shots, setting up the angles, the precarious precision of the whole affair was the only thing he had that could take his mind off of Gwen; taking those pictures had been his only escape.

And now here she is, touching them, poring over them without saying a word. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on edge. He doesn't want her to see, doesn't want to know what she thinks, doesn't want her to recognize that most of the street corners he has chosen subjects on are almost exclusively within a mile of her apartment building.

Gwen sets the photos down and looks at him. "These are … "

"Just pictures," says Peter quickly.

"Amazing," Gwen finishes. "I mean. They're dark, they're kind of sad, but … really amazing, Peter."

He blushes. Okay, maybe he does want to know what she thinks after all.

"You're submitting them?" she says, picking up the pamphlet describing the Empire State scholarship.

"Yeah," he says, walking over to her so he can collect the photos and put them in a drawer. "I mean, I already did. It would be a full ride."

When she looks up at him, she's grinning. "You want to go to Empire State?"

"Yeah," he says. "You don't—I mean, you don't think I could get in?"

"No, no, of course you would, it's just—I think I'm going there, too," she says. "OsCorp wants to keep their trained interns around and the internship program's offering me a full ride, so."

Peter considers this for a moment. He knows Gwen will probably have plenty of other offers—better offers—in the coming months, and that she is the last person on earth who needs financial aid. He wonders why on earth she would stay in New York and go to an above average school like Empire State when she could go to an excellent school like Stanford or Yale.

She must understand that he's wondering this, because their eyes meet for a second and she ducks her head down and says, "I really think it would be best if I stayed close to home. After everything that's happened. My mom, my brothers—you know."

"Yeah," says Peter. He feels stupid for even thinking for a fleeting second that he is the reason she would stay in New York, when she has so much else going on. "Yeah, me too, with Aunt May." He finishes putting the photos away. "But hey, congratulations."

"Thanks," she says, and when she lifts her head up it's apparent that she didn't realize Peter had walked closer to her to put the photos away, because her head bumps his shoulder and she startles back.

"Sorry," says Peter, taking a step back and stumbling straight into his wheeled desk chair. She reaches out, presumably to help him balance, but he's already too far gone and when she latches her hand to his wrist she goes tumbling down with him.

She lands directly on top of him with a thud that almost knocks the wind out of him. He looks up at her face, inches away from his, and thinks how a thousand times he has seen things like this in the movies and thought it was _absolutely ridiculous_, but now that it's happening to him all he can think about is how he can feel her heart hammering against his chest and smell cinnamon gum and feel the tickle of her hair on his neck and—

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she says, scrambling off of him ungracefully, landing on her side on the carpet. "Are you okay?"

"Uh," he says, still sort of in disbelief, still picturing her big, doleful eyes above his and not quite able to see anything else. "Yeah, I'll, uh, I'll live."

Neither of them makes any move to get up from the floor. They're still close. Too close. Laying on their backs, facing each other, and somehow getting closer. Peter is sure he isn't moving—or maybe he is, just the tiniest bit, but so is she, and he knows it isn't an accident because her eyes are wide open and waiting for him, he's sure of it—then suddenly they're so close that Peter can feel his palms starting to sweat, his heart starting to race—her eyes close in anticipation and the moment is suddenly so simple, so basic, the only thing that makes _sense_, of _course_ he can't stay away from her, of _course _they will always be like this, inevitable, unshakeable, unstoppable—

"Peter! Is Gwen staying for dinner?"

Both of their eyes snap open. They're so close that in their mutual scramble to get up their foreheads collide and they both hiss back in surprise. After a few seconds of recovery she stares at him, her mouth open, her cheeks burning.

Then she snaps back into action. "I've got to go," she says firmly, grabbing her backpack from the floor.

"Gwen," Peter says, because he wants to be able to fix this, but he doesn't know how.

"Tell your Aunt May I'm sorry I can't stay. Good-bye."

* * *

To address an issue: A lot of people have been asking for longer chapters, and while I am flattered that you want to read more, I'm updating every day and they are going to remain 5-6 pages—which, quite frankly, is a lot considering I'm working nine hours a day until the next semester starts and preparing for some important music gigs on the side. I'm not miffed by people just asking for longer chapters in general (I've done that to other authors plenty), but more than a few people have either said or implied that I'm not putting as much care into my writing because the chapters are short—which is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Putting care into my writing is PRECISELY why the chapters are this length. I could give you 12 pages of me writing this story in a mediocre fashion, but I choose to give 5 to 6 pages of what I believe to be my most solid work, because I respect this site and respect the people reading this story.

More to the point, though, I'm doing this for _fun_. I really don't want to be stressed out by this. And to the majority of people who have left awesome reviews, either offering constructive criticism or telling me what you liked, I really appreciate that. It helps me improve as a writer. I welcome actual, legitimate suggestions because it makes me so happy that people are emotionally invested enough to offer them—I wish I could respond to you all individually, because I genuinely take everything you all say to heart, whether or not I am able to respond. But there is no place in reviews for comments that are unconstructive and unhelpful, so please, if you seriously think the chapter length is impeding on my artistic integrity or whatever, I'm gonna say it once so I don't have to say it again: Tough.


	16. Chapter 16

**Lying Heart**

* * *

The next day is Christmas Eve. Peter usually likes this day of the holiday season the most. It's the build-up to Christmas that seems much more exciting than the actual day. He gets up absurdly early and even though it's still dark out, he takes a walk around Queens, sneaking glances of little trees in people's windows, admiring the attempts at Christmas decorations in apartment balconies.

By the time he wanders back to the house it's almost daylight. Aunt May is sitting on the couch and looks up when he walks in, her expression a little nervous.

"You were—you were out?" she asks.

"Yeah," says Peter. "Not for long, I just took a walk. Look," he says, producing the donuts he bought at a bakery a mile or so away.

She accepts the donuts and gets up to tend to the kettle. "You don't stay out much these days, the way you used to," she says.

Peter mulls over the way she says it, but can't really tell by her tone how she feels about it. "I guess," he says uncomfortably, finishing off the donut he had been eating on the way home.

Aunt May pulls out two mugs for tea. "Do you just … not enjoy … skateboarding anymore?" she asks, carefully.

Peter scowls. "Of course I do," he says as evenly as he can. "It's just … sometimes …" His hands ball into frustrated fists. He doesn't like that Aunt May is questioning him, he doesn't want to think about this at all, because either way there is trouble on the horizon. Either he never gets his powers back, gets a chance with Gwen, and Spiderman never helps another living soul; or he gets his power back, loses Gwen, and continues trying to redeem himself for the impossible wrongs he has already let happen to this city.

"I've just been busy with other things," he says lamely.

Aunt May's eyes glint knowingly. "Gwen Stacy?"

"No," he says, loudly. "I mean, no." He scratches the back of his neck where the tag of his coat is itching his skin. "We were just Christmas shopping, is all."

Aunt May drops the subject, but Peter can't help but worry that she is somehow disappointed in him. He starts to consider his behavior over the past week. On one hand, he knows that if his abilities returned somehow, he would be back on the streets in an instant; on the other hand, he has done absolutely nothing to try to reclaim them, and short of strolling back into OsCorp and offering his arm to another spider he can't think of a single way to do that without the stranger's help.

He has to go back. The day after Christmas, he resolves.

In the meantime he finishes the final touches on his new suit. He sets it on a hanger and lets it hang in his closet for a moment, where he can stare at it from his bed. It is a rather conspicuous suit. He was clearly not going for subtlety when he first designed it. But here he was, with an opportunity to make it less of a screaming red and blue announcement of his presence, and he didn't change a thing.

He decides he likes it better this way. If it was dark, if it was in any way appropriate for lurking around in the night, he is sure he would seem a lot less well-intentioned than he is. And he doesn't want to give this city already filled to the gills with suspicious people any more reason to hate him.

Tentatively he gets up from his bed and touches his hand to the wall. Not even the slightest bit of tension. It's just a hand, an ordinary hand that might as well have never climbed up half the major buildings in Manhattan.

He sighs. Puts his hand down and lets his arm hang uselessly at his side. He has nothing to lose by going back to that basement and getting his abilities back—look at him. He is nothing now. He can't be Spiderman, he can't have the girl, he can't even look at himself in the mirror without tail spinning into an identity crisis that would astound even Erik Erickson himself.

He mentally rehearses what he'll say on Gwen's voicemail, knowing she won't pick up the phone, and then dials her number.

"Hey, Gwen," he starts, and then instantly forgets what he practiced. "Merry … Christmas Eve, I guess." The suit seems to be staring at him from his open closet door. "I just, I wanted to talk, I know yesterday was weird, and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—I didn't mean to—if I made you uncomfortable …"

He knows it wasn't entirely his fault, but he doesn't want to implicate her, just wants to forget the whole thing completely. "Anyway, I'm going to be in the city today, just grabbing a few last minute things. Call me if you … want to talk."

For a few seconds he just stands there, the phone pressed to his ear, wanting to say something less wishy-washy. He can't think of anything and waits too long to hang up. He doesn't know why he told her he'd be in the city, he really wasn't planning to be down there at all, but now he said he would be and he can't help but hope that maybe she'll listen to the voicemail and call him back.

* * *

New York is bursting at the seams with people, an agoraphobic's worst nightmare. Peter has never been stupid enough to venture out in public on Christmas Eve before. He couldn't possibly imagine that this many people had delayed their shopping to the last minute. He was a teenage boy, for god's sake, and even he isn't nearly as badly off as the panicked shoppers shoving each other through Manhattan.

He checks his cell phone. No calls from Gwen. It starts to snow, which he would ordinarily find sweet and cozy from a Christmas Eve in their little place in Queens, but it only irks him now. He decides to go grab himself a cup of coffee so he can sit down and wait it out— and so does everyone else in the city. He leaves the coffee place after waiting twenty minutes in line and decides to nurse his drink by a side alley.

He checks his phone again. No calls. He checks his texts, too, just in case, and then his email, but everything is predictably, frustratingly empty.

Just then the hairs on his forearms seem to tingle, and he snaps his head up, fully alert, anticipating something. He has felt this inexplicable tug before, this weird wrenching of his gut that always seems to point him in the direction of danger, but he hasn't felt it at all since his abilities disappeared. Maybe this is it—maybe they're returning—but he doesn't have any thoughts to spare, because once this feeling overwhelms him it is almost as if he is on autopilot.

He's running. Dodging shoppers with their bags and tearing through the streets, feeling more alive than he has since his abilities left him. He screeches to a halt outside of an alley, then ducks in, just _knowing_ that this is the place he has to be.

Sure enough, there are two men in the back of the alley, jointly holding up another guy against the brick wall. There are shopping bags strewn across the ground haphazardly, spilling with expensive gadgets, presumably Christmas presents. Peter is wary, though, and takes a moment to announce himself. He knows that people do shady business in the city sometimes, and while the man is being pressed against the wall, he might not necessarily be the one who's being robbed; but then he sees that the man against the wall is choking, literally turning purple in the face, and Peter decides to take uncalculated action before it's too late.

"Hey," Peter shouts, "put him down."

Only one of the culprits bothers to turn around to look at him. "Just some kid," he says to his partners. He turns to Peter, all six and a half feet and muscle and face tattoos. "Get outta here, if you know what's good for you, this ain't your problem."

Peter opens his mouth, wanting to retort but thinking the better of it. For some reason it's a lot easier for him to be quipping and candid behind the mask.

"Seriously," he says, feeling kind of stupid as he runs over to them, "let him go."

"Or what, you'll call the cops?"

Peter finally crosses the final few feet of space between them, sucks in a breath and in that moment, feels Spiderman's confidence creeping back into his bones. He looks the man in the eyes and says, "By the end of this, buddy, you're gonna _wish_ I called the cops."

The man promptly socks Peter in the gut.

"_Shit_." Peter doubles over, panting. One of the other men laughs at him. He has never felt this kind of humiliation before. It surpasses the day he threw up during his first public speech assignment, the day drove Uncle Ben's car into their mailbox, his first kiss with some girl named Shelley who then turned around and told everyone he was gross and had cooties—no, no, these were _nothing_ compared to this all-consuming stupidity, this heat that seems to burn all the way to his toes.

Before he can feel any more sorry for himself, the man clubs the side of his face with his shoe and Peter hits the ground. He blinks in disbelief. He is not Spiderman. He has not regained his abilities, or he has just gained the one, the ability to sense danger—but what the _hell_ is the use of that if he can't _do_ anything about it?

Just then there's a loud commotion over on the side of the alley where the men were previously holding up their victim. Apparently they are so distracted laughing at Peter that they accidentally loosen their grip, and the man kicks them to escape. He grabs his bags and goes tearing down the alley without looking back.

"A little help?" Peter croaks. Ungrateful jackass.

The three men go tearing out of the alley as well, for what purpose Peter isn't sure. They're about to hit the mouth of the street again, where everyone will see them, and there's no point in trying to rob him. Peter figures there's some sort of logical story behind this. But right now his head is radiating pain and he can barely stumble to his feet, so he honestly can't care any less.

He touches a hand to his face. Blood. Perfect. Now he's going to have to explain this away to Aunt May as well.

As he limps out of the alley and into the throng of stressed out New Yorkers, he checks his phone and sees one missed call from Gwen Stacy. She hasn't left a voicemail. Quickly he dials her number, fumbling because his fingers are so cold in the snow.

She doesn't pick up, but it doesn't matter, he's like a block away from her apartment anyway. He pushes past the ache in his gut and the pain in his head and decides to brave the twenty-story fire escape to her bedroom.

The climb is precarious and he isn't really thinking straight. He can't exactly blame the blow to the head, either. He's never thinking straight when it comes to Gwen. He reaches the tenth floor and has to stop to catch his breath. He has decidedly _not_ regained his abilities; he remembers how he practically soared up here the first time he did this climb on foot.

He finally reaches Gwen's window. The blinds are open. Of course they are; she isn't mad at him, she knows it was just a moment of weakness, on both of their parts. Just a silly fleeting moment that they'll move past, and it will be easy because Gwen is going upstate all of next week, so there will be some forced distance for them to recollect themselves.

Still, he doesn't want to leave it like this before they pack up and go. He straightens himself up, peeking through her window.

His heart falls into his stomach.

There she is, in her red Christmas dress and goofy jingle bell socks and a green ribbon pulling her hair back, sitting next to Richard. Peter ducks his head down so they can't see him. He shouldn't be here. This has never happened before, he doesn't want to see this, it is totally wrong of him to be looking, not to mention completely derailing. Just as he determines that he is going to turn around, climb back down the stairs and never think about this again, it happens.

Richard leans in and kisses Gwen. And she closes her eyes and kisses him back.

He stares, not for very long, but for what feels like forever. He is running down the stairs despite the collecting ice before they break the kiss. He runs all the way down, then stands there on the street, gasping for air.

No. He was wrong about everything, wrong about Gwen, wrong about himself. He can't handle this. Neither of them can. He walks away just as the snow flurries start to die down and as he descends into a nearby subway station, there is only one thing left in the world that Peter knows for sure: he can _never_ be Gwen Stacy's friend.

* * *

Guys, I cannot say how much I appreciate your supportive responses over the last day, and I'm so glad that it inspired a lot of you to come forward with some awesome suggestions for improvement and things to incorporate into the plot. My brain was spinning all day with ideas and it was TORTURE waiting to come home and jot them down! It's funny, this was really only supposed to be, like, a three chapter drabble fest, but woops. So thanks again, I am so excited for where this is all headed-I'm a few chapters ahead writing it, and it's certainly been a trip to see where the story decides it wants to go.

Sidenote about musical things-more than one person mentioned how Taylor Swift's "Haunted" fits into the dynamic so well and I just basically LOL'ed out of my seat because I was listening to that when I was like, huh, maybe I should write a super angsty fanfiction about this. Other songs I think tie in sort of well (in case anyone is looking for inspiration for their own fics): Skinny Love (Birdy cover-listened to it, no joke, 346 times during the writing of this), The Moment I Said It (Imogen Heap), It's About Time (Barcelona), Wanted You More (Lady Antebellum), The Last Time He Saw Dorie (no idea what the band is, too lazy to check), You Don't Know Her Like I Do (Brantley Gilbert).

And, obviously, Kenny Chesney's "Come Over," that sneaky little song fanficking devil.


	17. Chapter 17

**Lying Heart**

* * *

The day after Christmas Gwen leaves a voicemail on his phone: "Hey Peter. I'm sorry I didn't get back to you until now, things just got crazy with the holidays and everything, and I'm sorry I missed you. I'm headed up to my relatives' place, I just wanted to call and say … it's okay. I mean, it was nothing. Let's not dwell on it. So bye for now—see you next year."

Peter sits on the floor of his room for a long time after listening to the message. It was so short and almost business-like, as if he were one more thing she had to check off her to-do list before she left. He slumps against the wall, scowling.

_I mean, it was nothing_.

No. It was a lot of things, Peter thinks, but it certainly wasn't _nothing_. He thinks that of the brief message she left, this is the most part frustrating to hear. He doesn't want to be nothing. He doesn't want to be that lingering what-if Gwen squelches in the back of her mind as she leans in to kiss her picture-perfect boyfriend. He is more than that, the two of them are _more_ than that, and he knows he is young and this is the first time he has ever felt this way about a girl and by virtue of this, his judgment isn't always the most reliable, but that doesn't stop him from really, truly believing that they belong together.

He sees the Spiderman suit in his closet. Anger wells up inside him, the kind of uncontrollable, twisted, immature rage that he hasn't felt since he was at least thirteen, and he gets up from the floor and slams the closet door so hard it rattles the walls of the house.

It only makes him angrier. It isn't _enough _to slam the door, he wants to tear it off its hinges and throw it at something, he wants to break through the wood with his fist, he wants to have some power over something again, some control, because everything else in his life is such an awful mess. A week ago he could have torn this stupid door with ease; he could have done it by accident, for god's sake, and now he's just stupid, pathetic, slamming a damn door like a five-year-old having a tantrum.

"Peter?"

He freezes, his lips a tight line.

"Is everything alright up there?"

He hangs his head, still not quite calm enough to feel shame, but getting close to it. "Yeah, sorry. I tripped," he calls down.

After a few minutes of sitting dejectedly on the carpet, Peter forces himself to get up and splash some water on his face. He can't just mope here all day. He doesn't have Gwen, and there is nothing he can do about it, but he can do something about his abilities, or the very least he can try.

It takes Peter a bit longer to find the intersection he emerged near when he came out of the basement, and even once he arrives it's difficult to reorient and figure out what side street he came out of. It's mid-afternoon by the time he finds it. He stands there for a moment in front of the unassuming black door and tries to gather some resolve to walk in.

It seems counter-intuitive to go inside. It seems downright thick. His only memories of that basement involve him being shackled to a chair. And while he wasn't conscious for the four days he spent there, it doesn't make the idea of it any less unsettling.

He has to do this. It's all he has left.

He turns the knob, a bit surprised at how easy it is to open the door. He assumed it would be locked. Certainly the man who had taken all of these precautions with Peter was smart enough to have some sort of security system, which is why Peter is careful not to look up in case there are any surveillance cameras on him. He doesn't like the idea of the man seeing his face from some other room, doesn't like the idea of anyone having that kind of power over him.

Peter descends down the staircase and finds the second door, the one that should lead to the room where he was held captive. It's completely silent in this place. He sees in the dim light that it is actually much bigger than he thought earlier, and beyond the room where he was held there is a hallway leading to what appears to be several labs and conference rooms, all visibly empty of people through their wide windows but nonetheless full of materials that seem to have been recently used.

"Hello?" he calls.

The hair on his forearms and the back of his neck tingles again, and he is absolutely certain he is being watched. Again he resists the urge to search for cameras, to search for faces emerging from the shadows. He does not want to look frightened or anything reminiscent of the caged animal he was the last time he was here.

He won't call out again. This place, for lack of a better phrase, really gives him the creeps. At least he tried.

He's about to turn around and walk back up the steps as fast as he can, but something stops him. For a second he doesn't move, doesn't breathe. It is a far cry from the heightened senses he possessed in the past, but it feels like almost a glimmer of them, and it's enough to restore some shaky confidence.

"I know you're here," Peter says quietly.

"I wondered when you'd be back."

Peter swivels around. He wasn't expecting the man to appear behind him, near the staircase that led him down here. He isn't even sure what door the man could have just emerged from to sneak up on him like this.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter asks, trying to sound more sure than he is. He is curious, though. The robots seem to have disappeared from New York's skyline and there is no reason for him to be in touch with this man otherwise.

The man steps forward, out of the shadows. It's the first time Peter has seen him in the light, seen him without the high adrenaline rush of terror that has accompanied his last few encounters with him, and something suddenly strikes him as familiar about him. It doesn't matter, though. He's probably just some guy from OsCorp gone rogue, and there's a chance Peter has seen him in the papers, or even at OsCorp at his brief visit. Regardless, Peter has more important things on his mind.

"The counter serum," the man explains. "There were … complications, as you are realizing."

Peter's chest constricts. "It's permanent, isn't it?"

The man shakes his head curtly. "No. It isn't permanent. It is, however, going to take much longer for your abilities to be restored than I previously thought."

Peter's hands ball into fists at his sides. "How _much_ longer?" he demands. "What, a week? A month?"

"I'm working on it."

"What—_what_ do you mean, you're _working_ on it?" Peter snaps. "I thought you were supposed to know what you were _doing_—"

"Calm down," the man says in his usual condescending tone. "There were factors involved that I did not anticipate when creating this serum. Factors specific to your genetic make-up. It's nothing that I can't fix, but I'll need time."

"I don't understand what that even means. And—and you clearly have known for a long time that you messed this up big time, why wouldn't you try to contact me right away? I mean, _look at me_," says Peter, jutting out his chin and unconsciously pointing out the purpling bruise from the attempted robbery two days before. "I'm completely useless. You could have warned me about this _days_ ago."

The man's lips crease into a thin line. "I was waiting for you to come to me."

"Well I'm _here_ now—"

"I was waiting," the man says over Peter, "because I wanted you to have a choice this time." He steps closer to Peter, and it takes everything in Peter's power not to back away from him. "I see now that there is no way you could have anticipated these abilities or the responsibility that came with them. It's a burden. It will change your life forever. And despite yourself, you enjoyed this last week without your abilities, didn't you?"

"Not at all," Peter retorts.

Peter still can't see the man's eyes behind his sunglasses, but he doesn't need to see them to know that the man is looking at him patronizingly. "It took you a week to come find me. Tell me it didn't make things easier. School. Your social life."

"You seem to think you know a lot about me," Peter says, both suspicious and uncomfortable.

The man doesn't answer.

"I don't understand—why do I get a choice _now?_ Have you decided to trust me or something?"

"Circumstances have changed," the man says carefully.

It dawns on Peter a little slower than he would have liked, but after a few seconds he says, "You need my help, don't you?"

"Not necessarily. But you are inextricably involved in this now, in ways you can't even fathom."

Peter swallows. "That was really ominous and unhelpful," he points out.

If he isn't mistaken, the tiniest smile almost cracks on the man's face.

"I apologize that I can't really tell you much right now to explain the situation. But there is something unique about your genetic make-up, something that has been lying dormant in you for years, and I fear the man who is creating these robots has just become aware of it since your last encounter with the robots. This quiet—I suspect it is only the calm before a storm."

Peter mulls this over. "You mean … before that spider bit me … there was something wrong with my DNA?"

"Precisely. It is also the reason why I made such a gross miscalculation in developing the serum. I wasn't aware."

"But you are now?" Peter asks. "I don't understand, how would you possibly know if there were something—I mean, I'm perfectly normal, or at least I was. Before that spider bit me I was just—" He almost says _I was just Peter Parker, _and even though he is almost certain the man knows his identity, it feels dangerous to say it out loud. "I was just normal," he says again instead.

The man nods. "I'm going to tell you something, because I think you have the right to know."

"Alright," Peter says tentatively.

"Richard Parker's formula," the man explains, "was not the formula that mutated Dr. Connors. He hid the real formula somewhere else. Hid it in the one thing he knew would always be kept safe."

Peter's palms start to sweat. He searches the man's face, trying to understand, and afraid that he already understands all too well. "What … what does that mean?"

"You, Peter." The man nods toward him definitively, almost regrettably. "He hid it in you."

* * *

Shout out to my little sister, who developed that little wham-o idea at the end. I frequently cry to her for help with writer's block because she actually has a brain and knows a lot more about the Spiderman universe than I do, so credit where credit is due on that plot twist. When she texted me this idea I was so pleased I basically cried on the street.

Also, other song everyone needs to hear "Four Color Love Story" by the Metasciences. It's a sweet little song poking fun at comic book romances, including Peter and Gwen's, I've had it on my iPod for years and didn't remember until it came up on my shuffle this morning.

I have to go now. My frozen pizza is done. My Friday night is such a rager.


	18. Chapter 18

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Peter's initial reaction is to laugh. At first it's just a chuckle. "Me?" he deadpans, and then he sees how serious the man is, and it turns into full on spasm. "That's … that's ridiculous, what, what does that—how could he even—I mean, come on, how do you hide a formula in a _person_?"

The man does not seem at all surprised by Peter's incredulity. "You were only six years old," he says.

Peter's laughter dies down. He tries to calm himself. "I would have _remembered_ if somebody—what, what did he do, what are you even saying?"

"Your DNA has been altered since briefly before your parents' deaths. It was probably an ill-advised maneuver," says the man, his gaze uncharacteristically flitting to the floor for a moment, "but your father seemed to think it was appropriate, that his own son would be the premiere carrier of a formula that could change the world." The man looks back up. "He was arrogant. Foolish. Didn't foresee the consequences, didn't understand that they were all yours to face."

"Don't talk about my father that way," Peter snaps, "who the hell are you, that you know _anything _about him, about me—how dare you?"

"I was working at OsCorp, helping develop the formula all those years ago," says the man. "I worked very closely with your father. I know your family well. And even though he never said in so many words what he did to you, I knew."

"You're not making any sense," Peter says, his eyes wild. "You're not making _any_ sense."

"The alterations to your DNA weren't supposed to be activated. Your father at least had the good sense to let you have a normal childhood, or as normal as it could be as an orphan. Perhaps he only ever meant to test the DNA splicing on you for safekeeping, perhaps he knew he would never release the true formula and he needed some evidence of his work to validate himself, but either way, supposedly he should be the only one with the key to unlocking your abilities."

"My father wouldn't—I don't believe you." Peter backs away from him, toward the stairs. "You're crazy. You couldn't have known my father. He _wouldn't_ just—I wasn't some sort of science experiment!" Peter bursts.

"No, you weren't," the man agrees. "Not until that spider bit you. And for whatever reason, it was just enough to unlock something that has been dormant in you for years."

Peter blinks, hard. It feels like the ground is suddenly uneven, as if the walls are at all the wrong angles and the world is tipping. He tries to remember his father, anything he can remember, but his memories are few and sparsely-detailed. He remembers stupid things, like driving to the beach, or eating breakfast, or waiting at the bus stop. In these memories his father always seemed like an ambiguous figure, someone sturdy and warm and strong, but now Peter wonders if he really ever knew anything about his father at all.

_Be good_, his father said to him before he left. Not _I love you_, or _I'll be home soon_, but _Be good_. Peter stares down at his hands, his hands that have climbed thousands of feet and swung biocables across bridges and punched through steel. _Be good_. As if his father had known this was going to happen, as if it had been predestined for longer than he ever knew.

It's an unbearable thought. It was so much different when this was chance, when it was a happy accident, when Peter thought that he was _chosen_ in some way to defend the city, to use his abilities to do good. But this changes everything. Yes, he was chosen, but by the hand of a man who was supposed to love him, by the hand of a man who should never have wished anything like this upon him.

He blinks again. His eyes are stinging. "You're _lying_," Peter says through grit teeth, because he just _has_ to be wrong.

"I wish I were," says the man, sounding sincere. "But it is the only plausible explanation for your abilities. Did you really think a mere spider bite would have such a drastic effect on your nervous system?"

Peter's face burns. "I didn't—I didn't know _what_ to think, how could I have _possibly_ thought that—that my _father_—" He hangs his head, trying to compose himself. A few seconds pass and his head snaps back up, his rage cracking like a whip. "No. _No_. You thought you knew him so well, then tell me this—why would he _leave?_" Peter's entire body is shaking, his shoulders so tensed and rigid that they ache. "If I wasn't enough, surely his precious _formula_ was enough of a reason to stick around. So how the hell do you explain that?" Peter demands.

For a long time the man doesn't say anything. Peter is practically panting by now, his heart hammering in his throat. His eyes are glued to the man. The fragile balance of his universe hangs on whatever he says next.

"I don't," says the man. "I can't. Your parents never consulted me before they fled that night."

Peter lets out a clipped, angry snort. He walks away from the man, toward the opposite wall. He wants to throw his fist through something. He wants to scream. It is not unlike the anger he felt this morning, but now there is no doubt in his mind that he has earned the right to it.

His voice is quiet when he speaks again. "Why are you even bothering to tell me any of this?"

"I helped Richard develop that formula. I can't help but feel some responsibility for your current situation. Which is why I have to ask you again, before I finish a method to dissolve the counter-serum in your bloodstream: is this really what you want?"

There is a world Peter can imagine, a world he has imagined many times in the past few months, where everything works out for the best and he gets everything he wants in life. But he has had a week's worth of chances and if anything, he has only made his life worse. And even if he hadn't just lost his shot at happiness, even if that perfect world were attainable, it doesn't change the truth.

Peter is Spiderman now. Spiderman has to exist for Peter to exist. He cannot stand in the sidelines and do nothing, not after he has had this sense of purpose, of belonging, that comes with slinging webs all over this city. He can disregard his father's request to be good, but he can't disregard his unspoken promise to live up to Uncle Ben's sense of morality, of his duty to do what is right.

"Yes," says Peter, his eyes steely and hard. He didn't choose this, but he chooses not to run away from it anymore.

After a moment the man nods solemnly. "I was afraid you'd say that."

"I don't understand," says Peter. "Why do you even care?"

The man adjusts his sunglasses. "Your life is about to become even more complicated than you can imagine. The man responsible for the robots—while he is not aware of the details of your creation as well as I am, he knows enough to come after you. And I fear that by deterring his earlier plans, you have become his new target."

Peter digests this. "But you know who he is. Can't we stop him?"

"It won't be that simple."

"What does he even want with me?" Peter asks.

The man's eyebrows raise. "You have highly-coveted abilities that have, as far as he knows, outwitted his best machinery. He doesn't know of my involvement or my return to New York yet—my interference reactors prevent any communication between the robots and their creator, so as far as he knows, it is you who has been destroying them every time."

"So you do need me," says Peter, this time without any trace of smugness. "To distract him. Because you know of a way to stop him."

The man nods grimly. "We just have to find him first." He looks at Peter. "That's where you come in."

"I can't—I wouldn't know the first thing about how to find this guy, are you kidding?" asks Peter.

"During the next attack—yes, I am certain there will be another," the man says at Peter's expression, "I will need your help distracting whatever he sends. If you can keep it in motion for long enough, I can use wireless technology to override its security systems and find his location." His eyebrows raise. "I've been trying to do this from the second attack. It was all too evident that they were going to kill you, though, so both times I have had to make an executive decision to shoot them down instead."

Peter tries not to roll his eyes at this. If the man had just _told_ him this from the beginning, when Peter first offered his help, it wouldn't have been a problem. But he's been struggling with the police on the same matter for god knows how long so he is used to this kind of condescension from adults.

"Thanks, I guess," he mumbles instead. "But how are you proposing I keep them distracted any longer than before? The robots get more powerful every time."

"I have a few ideas. But right now, I have somewhere to be."

Peter watches him walk away, stunned by how abruptly and unexpectedly he leaves. "The serum," he calls after the man. "When are you going to fix this?"

"Meet me here in three days. Same time. I'll be ready to discuss our options with you then."

* * *

Peter doesn't realize that there was no cell reception in that basement until he emerges to two texts from Aunt May asking what he wants for dinner and how late he'll be home, and a missed call and voicemail from Gwen. He has a thousand more important things rattling in his brain, but curiosity gets the best of him and he suppresses the unbearable noise of everything else to hear her message.

"Peter, hey." Her voice is quiet, as if she has stolen away to an empty room to leave the message. "It's Gwen. Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left the way I did. You didn't do anything wrong." There's a pause. "I really want to know what happened when you disappeared, I really want to know the truth about why you haven't been on the streets at night. There's something really wrong, isn't there?" He can hear her press the phone closer to her cheek. "Please tell me, Peter. I know you can't talk to anyone else about it, and … maybe I can help."

He wishes so badly he could tell her everything. He really meant to, once he had gotten past the humiliation of it. He trusts Gwen the way he thought he could only ever trust his aunt and uncle. He aches for her—the way she can just sit next to him and feel at ease, the way she listens with watchful eyes, the way she always seems to know the right thing to say and offer the soundest advice when he is tossing in a sea of indecision.

But it isn't an option anymore. He doesn't know why the sight of her kissing Richard has changed everything so significantly for him—he knew a while ago that they must have been intimate if they were dating for this long. But seeing it makes it permanent, makes it irreversible, unforgivable.

Seeing it makes Peter face the facts: Gwen may be happy with him, but she can also be happy without him. And if there's a chance that she can be happy without him, happy and _safe_, he has no right to interfere. It is no longer a matter of her father's dying request. It is plain, it is simple, it is right and wrong, and for the first time, this isn't a difficult decision for Peter to make.

Maybe this means he is finally growing up. He just didn't think it would mean feeling so alone.

* * *

I'm posting early today because I have a GIG opening for this kind of locally famous country singer tonight that I have to drive to. So. Be excited for me. Also, in celebration of this gig, and the fact that Andrew Garfield will never love me, I'm going to tell you all about the most shameful thing I ever did on the internet (and no, it's not posting this exceedingly long fanfiction). I wrote Andrew Garfield a song last January and put it on You Tube. If you search "the andrew garfield song", I'm the girl with the pink guitar and the awkward lyrics who should be clubbed in the face.

Sadly, it has more views than any of my legitimate attempts at making music. But that's what being a soon to be homeless musician is all about!


	19. Chapter 19

**Lying Heart**

* * *

At dinner that night Peter head is still spinning. He tries a hundred times to think of anything peculiar in his childhood, anything out of the ordinary. Did his father inject him with something? Was he conscious for it? He must not have known what it was, that much he knows for sure, because even at six he was very alert and curious.

But when you trust someone the way Peter trusted his parents, with all the blind loyalty and love a six-year-old can offer, why would you have any reason to be suspicious of their intentions?

He wonders if his mother knew. If she tried to stop him. He wonders what on earth his father had planned for him—what did he think was going to happen? Had he ever planned to activate it intentionally, or was he going to let his son remain a ticking time bomb for the rest of his life? If he did all this to him, something so permanent and obviously carefully planned, why would he disappear that night, and why wouldn't he have left even the slightest of explanation behind?

He tries to make himself feel better by assuring himself that his father probably thought that the abilities would never be an issue, because they would never be activated. It's easier to think that this was not a fate somebody chose for him.

It doesn't change the fact that it happened anyway.

"What's on your mind, Peter?" Aunt May asks over spaghetti.

Peter shrugs.

"You seem distracted."

"College applications," he says, even though he turned everything in a week ago. She drops the subject—Peter is decidedly in the clear for once—but he can't help himself from asking. "Aunt May," he says carefully, "how much did you know about my father's research?"

She purses her lips. "Oh, Peter. I wish I could tell you."

"Because you can't tell me, or you don't know?"

"Because I don't know," Aunt May says, her eyes honest and weary.

"Anything?" Peter asks, trying not to sound desperate. "I mean, not even the tiniest little thing. He never—he never said anything before he left that night, anything about—" He would talk about the formula but he doesn't want Aunt May to know anything more than she needs to, just in case. "What did he say that night, before they left?"

Aunt May shakes her head. "I spoke to your mother that night, Peter, and she was mostly concerned about you."

"She didn't say anything—out of the ordinary?"

Aunt May looks at him sadly, with an expression that makes her seem much older to him than she has in the past. "Oh, Peter. I've told you everything she said to me a dozen times over the years. Whatever you're looking for … I'm sorry."

"But I just thought that," Peter starts, but he can't think of how to explain to her without unintentionally getting her involved. He takes a breath, trying hard to relax his face out of its scowl. "My father. You didn't talk to him at all?"

"Peter," says Aunt May, surprised by his persistence, "I swear to you, I've told you everything that I know. What has gotten into you?"

"He didn't talk to you? He didn't talk to Uncle Ben?"

She takes too long to respond.

"He talked to Uncle Ben," Peter realizes, his face paling. "How long were they talking?"

Aunt May has shifted from exasperated to concerned. "Peter, it was eleven years ago, your mother was a wreck and I was trying to write down a hundred and one things—I honestly couldn't tell you, it was all happening so fast."

"He talked to Uncle Ben," Peter says again, his stomach sinking, the situation becoming all too clear. Uncle Ben had known, Peter is suddenly certain without a single doubt. It explains all of the impromptu talks about good and evil, all the unwarranted lectures and reassurances about his morality, and more than anything, it explains the voicemail—the last words of Uncle Ben's Peter ever heard, which were ominous and foretelling in their own right.

Uncle Ben had known for years, and probably knew that Peter's abilities had been activated before his premature death.

Suddenly Peter is furious at the world beyond words. Not only has his uncle been taken from him too soon, but now he realizes that the only person on earth who could have helped him, the only one who would have understood and been able to offer him any sort of guidance, is _gone_.

He tries to keep his breathing even. He doesn't want to scare Aunt May. But the blow of realization is so crushing that it becomes less of an issue of keeping his breathing and more of an issue of breathing at all. He is reeling. He can't believe this.

Everybody who can help him is gone. His father. His uncle. _Gwen_.

His eyes snap up and he sees his aunt staring at him in alarm. "Peter," she asks quietly. "What's going on?"

He finally takes a breath. He has to calm down. He reminds himself that he is being ridiculous, that he is far from alone—he has Aunt May, who is gentle and far too understanding of him, who always knows just what to say and what not to.

"It's fine," says Peter. "I just … I need to go for a walk."

The walk becomes a subway ride into the city. He isn't sure where he is going. He wanders through the streets, letting himself get swallowed up by post-holiday shoppers and tourists. He avoids the newspapers. Spiderman's disappearance is so old it is no longer front page news. It makes him anxious. Three days seems far too long to wait, especially now that the man seems to think there will be an attack much worse than the ones before.

He wanders over to Gwen's apartment. It takes over an hour to walk there and she isn't even home, but he needs to walk and he can't think of any other destination in the city worth walking toward. He ducks into a coffee shop near her place and sulks over a drink.

"Parker."

Peter flinches. He looks up reflexively and sees it's none other than Richard, who seems to have abandoned his coffee and wallet at another table to approach him. Richard is probably the last person on earth Peter wants to see, but he noisily and ostentatiously pulls up a chair anyway and sits down.

"'Lo," Peter mumbles into his drink, barely bothering to make eye contact.

Richard leans in. His voice is low and threatening. "I heard that voicemail you left on Gwen's phone," he says.

"What?" Peter hasn't left a voicemail on Gwen's phone. And then he remembers—the apology, after the almost-kiss in his bedroom. "Oh," he says. "Wow. You're listening to her voicemails? Man, that's—"

"You need to _back off,_ Parker," says Richard. "I don't know what it was that you were referring to in that message—but you had better not have laid a _hand_ on her."

"I didn't," Peter says defensively, "Jesus, I didn't, were you even _listening_ to what I said when you hacked into your girlfriend's private voicemails? Nothinghappened." He sets his jaw. "And that aside, you don't get to tell me what to do."

"Like _hell_ I can't tell you what to do," says Richard. "She's dating_ me_, Parker. Get it through your head."

"Are you saying maybe you don't trust your girlfriend as well as you thought you did?" Peter challenges him, his tone steady and low.

"No. I'm saying you're crossing the line, Parker, and I'm warning you."

Peter tries unsuccessfully to suppress a snort. "You're _warning_ me?"

"That's right," says Richard, looking undeterred. "I don't care what it takes to get you out of the picture, Parker, but I will do it. I know you think you have a chance," he continues condescendingly, "I'm sure you think you're so slick when you steal her away for a few hours with something stupid like shopping or studying, but listen up—it isn't _real_."

Peter keeps his expression as neutral as he possibly can, because the truth is Richard has hit the nail on the head and he doesn't want to give himself away.

"For something that isn't real, you seem awfully bothered by it," he says.

Richard's eyes are glinting with fury. His shoulders are tensed as if he is making every effort in the world not to reach out and sock Peter in this incredibly public place. "I am not _bothered_. I'm not here because I think of you in any way as a threat. I'm here because you're harassing the girl I love, and I can't just sit around and watch and not do something about it."

"The girl you _love?_" Peter repeats. He shakes his head, convinced that Richard is full of it, but when he looks up he sees nothing but sincerity in the other boy's eyes. Peter looks away, quickly—he doesn't want to think about Richard this way, as someone who is fiercely devoted to Gwen the same way he is, as someone who has real, human emotions and might be able to give Gwen everything she needs. "No. No, man, you've only been dating for what, like a month?"

"I _love_ her," Richard repeats, through grit teeth, "and yes, it's only been a month, but—Gwen is the kind of girl you fall in love with, and if you can't understand that—well then you wouldn't have deserved her anyway."

Peter stares at his empty coffee cup, unconsciously crushing it between his fingers. The trouble is that he understands all too well. The trouble is that Peter probably loved Gwen before he even met her. The trouble is that it doesn't matter who loves her more, or who she would choose, because none of this has any substance—this petty little competition between the two of them isn't worth a thing, because Peter will inevitably lose. If he wants to be able to face himself in a mirror, he has to lose.

He is about to surrender to Richard, to tell him he's right and that he wishes the best for them, he really is. But then the both of them look toward the window, where an ominous shadow has just passed over the street, and several dozen people have started to point at the sky and shriek.

"The robots," says Peter, nearly knocking over the table in his haste to get up. He doesn't know what his intentions could possibly be, but he knows he can't sit in a coffee shop for this, abilities or not.

"Shit, man." Richard's eyes are wide, locked on the window. "_Shit_. What do we do?"

"I don't know," says Peter, and then he tears off into the street.

It is chaos, absolute chaos, but whatever is attacking is nowhere in sight. Peter has never been more frustrated to be grounded in his whole life. His first instinct is to throw himself up at the nearest building and crawl, but one look at his hands and he knows he is still as powerless as he was the day before.

There has to be something he can do. He stands in the middle of the street, letting passerby crash into him as he stares up at the sky.

His suit is in his backpack, and he knows the robot is out for his blood. Even without his powers, if he can trick it into thinking he's an able-bodied Spiderman, maybe it will bide them enough time for the man to track its location, enough time that it won't kill any more civilians than it already has.

He runs back into the coffee shop. Everyone is gone now, including Richard, and Peter changes into his suit in a stall in mere seconds. By the time he hits the streets again he is one of the few people left outside, and then, finally, he sees it—far above the city is another robot, but this one is much smaller, maybe half the size of the previous models, not to mention sleeker and faster.

Peter runs takes off, intending to run into an open intersection and get its attention, but an arm suddenly yanks him back.

"What are you _thinking?_"

It's the man from before. Peter shakes him off angrily. "I'm thinking that this thing is going to kill a bunch of people if someone doesn't get out there and distract it."

"For what, ten seconds? And then you're dead. Useless," the man hisses angrily. "You have to _think_, Peter—"

"Well, what are you proposing, then, if you seem to have all the answers?" Peter yells back, not even considering the overly-familiar use of his first name in the midst of his frustration.

He pulls out a needle full of blue liquid. "This is not the final product, not by far. There is a chance it will immediately restore your abilities, but moreover there is a chance of a lot of other risks as well—"

"Do it," says Peter, offering his arm.

"You need to know that there are incalculable potential consequences to—"

"_Do it_," Peter demands, "you know we don't have much time."

The man doesn't hesitate this time. He jabs the needle into Peter's arm. For a moment he doesn't feel a thing; then his entire body, every vein, every nerve, every fiber, is suddenly on fire. It feels like nothing he has ever felt before. He sucks in a breath, opens his eyes, aims a biocable toward the nearest building and soars.

* * *

Thank you guys so much for wishing me luck last night! It went SPECTACULARLY, I could not have had more fun. A bunch of nine year olds even mistook me for an important person and I signed autographs for the first (and most likely last) time. And the main act was such a blast to watch. Like, everyone got up and danced and I didn't look like the biggest idiot in the room for once with the three dance moves I know (which are: the awkward noncommittal shuffle, pointing my hand up at the sky, and doing that weird little thing where you plug your nose and wave your hand and act like a drowning fish).

I'd like to take this opportunity to shout out to my little sisters, because even though you didn't answer the home phone the two times I called today, I know for a fact you are both reading this, so here goes: PLEASE KEEP THE HOUSE CLEAN FOR MOM'S BIRTHDAY, and if you do I might let you both read a chapter a day early. MIGHT.

And if you don't clean the house, I'm holding this story hostage and everyone else reading it will know that you're to blame. La la la la la.


	20. Chapter 20

**Lying Heart**

* * *

It feels like Peter is dreaming. Were his abilities ever this spectacular before? Maybe it's just the relief of them returning, or maybe he is even more agile and strong than he has ever been, but this is the closest he has ever felt to what he imagines a drug high in like. He soars through the air, fearless, invincible.

He sees the menacing new model of the robot only a block from him and doesn't even feel the usual skip of his heartbeat that accompanies encountering a large threat. He grins. He's so _happy_. The tips of his fingers are practically on fire, the air in his lungs is so fresh and easy, everything is electric, and he is going to win. He knows the man said to distract it and Peter suddenly is sure he is more than capable of this feat.

He hears the man below calling his name but Peter doesn't care. He has this under control.

After about thirty seconds of web-slinging—_god_, this is the best feeling in the world—Peter has caught up to the robot, which seems to be scoping out the ground and shooting at fleeing targets. Peter doesn't even have to think, it's like his muscles are fifteen seconds ahead of him. He slings two webs at the robot and propels himself toward it, landing with a crash at its chest.

It barely leaves a dent, but it's something. The robot doesn't react at first, but then it spins wildly, as if trying to shake him off.

"Sticky hands, man," Peter announces, laughing with the exhilaration of it all. "My hands can _stick_ again!"

It clubs him abruptly in the back, so hard that his teeth rattle. Peter still clings to it, climbing up toward its arms, intending to disable the lasers by finding some way to detach them.

He smells it before he feels it—the sharp, acrid smell of burning spandex and skin—and reflexively he moves his hands away and lets himself fall. The robot has heated its own metal plates and burned him. He stares at his hands, the skin red and angry and soon to blister. Then he remembers he is falling.

He shoots another web, one that sticks to the robot's feet. "That's the best you can do?" he challenges it.

It turns its bright green pinpoint eyes toward Peter and fires. The laser cuts through Peter's arm and through the biocable connecting them. Peter falls again, and this time slings a web toward a building and propels himself out of its sightline, inviting it to start a chase. The man said he wanted to distract it for as long as possible, and Peter would do whatever it took.

That's when he sees it—there are directed heat missiles flying over Manhattan. Peter's eyes widen and for a moment he sticks to a building, stunned. He can't stop a missile. He shoots a biocable at one of them but it's so heated and so fast that it flies on as if he merely brushed it. He keeps shooting anyway, his chest welling in panic. He tries to count—he can see at least three of them.

He can't save anyone from this, he can't even save himself. He doesn't know a lot about weapons like these, he has never seen anything quite like this before, but he knows enough. Nobody could survive an impending missile attack like this.

He braces himself, his whole body tensing in anticipation of the moment one of them finally hits a target, but then he sees that they are all swerving in and out of buildings. Not only that, but they don't seem to have any relation to the robot at all; in fact, the robot has shifted its attentions from Peter completely and is shooting at them instead.

Peter wishes he had a watch, or at least some indication of how much longer he needs to be perched up here, antagonizing this robot in the midst of the most bizarre weapons display he has ever seen. The robot is now shooting through buildings in an attempt to hit the missiles. Peter wonders why it even bothers, but then it occurs to him so quickly and obviously that he feels stupid for not having figured it out before—the robots, all the ones they have encountered in the past, are heat seeking. He knows because they have continued to shoot at him even when he was out of sight.

The robot thinks the missiles are Spiderman.

It's genius, really, and Peter knows instantly that the man must have thought of this. It's a cheap diversion, one that could maybe buy them a minute or two, tops, but it might just be enough.

Until the robot shoots through one of them. The explosion is contained by missile standards, but the debris still scatters violently through the air; Peter feels glass piercing his skin and when he opens his eyes, the entire area is obscured by dust.

He can't see a thing, but that doesn't mean the robot can't. He's blindly shooting a web before he can even fully see through the haze, hoping it will connect with something, anything, and by some miracle it does, and Peter hoists himself up just before the shot intended to kill him fires through the air and hits the space of the building he was clinging to mere seconds before. He collides with a part of the building that juts out at the roof and he clings to it, climbing up on top of it, hoping he can get some sort of aerial view of the situation.

One missile. He can see one missile and the robot is nowhere in sight.

Weren't there three missiles? What happened to the other one? He would have noticed another explosion, it was loud enough to hear from thirty blocks away. He looks around wildly, both for the robot and the other missile, when, with a certain indescribable horror, he sees them both.

The robot has thought better of shooting through the missiles. Now it has grabbed one—not only has it grabbed one, but it is aiming it right toward Peter.

His first instinct to get out of its way is to jump and let himself fall, but he can't fall faster than it flies. He wonders if the missile will blow on its own accord at some point, or if the man has some measure of control over when and where it explodes. And if he does, will he detonate it now that it's so close to Peter, and now that it might prematurely destroy the robot itself and prevent them from getting a location on their creator?

Either way, they lose, because even if the damn thing doesn't detonate it doesn't change the fact that the robot has figured out their little game and has its sights set permanently on Peter.

In a desperate attempt to shake it off, he swings at another building, one that will take him on a sharp angle away from it, but he misses. He curses as he falls through the air and tries again, barely latching on, wishing that he could propel himself ten times faster than he already is flying even though there is no way the combination of his mass and the biocable technology would allow it.

He simply isn't a match for this new model. When it strikes him clean in shoulder he isn't even surprised; his teeth are already grit as if he had been hit ten seconds before.

He knows he's in trouble now, though, with only one arm capable of swinging from. He hears it behind him, the same way he has with every model of this robot in the past, but this time it's different, this time the whirr of it against the evening sky is so quiet and deadly that he is sure he is the only one who can hear it.

It fires again, but Peter stumbles and by chance it misses him and flies through the window of an empty office building. It fires a third time and hits him in his good arm, and then in his leg—the pain is white-hot and immediate and he is so stunned by it happening all at once that all he can manage to do is close his eyes and keep slinging biocables blindly as he falls.

Just when the blackness starts crawl at the edges of his vision, just when he has given up on his biocables connecting with anything useful, he hears it: another explosion—the missile has gone off and the robot is blown to smithereens—and the blast is in such close range that he is knocked sideways in the air, into a building and straight through a glass window.

He doesn't know how long he lays there, trying to overcome the shock. He opens his eyes but he doesn't want to move. Right now is okay. Right now is deeply uncomfortable, right now is not ideal, but right now he doesn't feel the rush of pain he knows will come with trying to get out of this place, and so he stares up at the ceiling and breathes in and breathes out.

He needs to get out of here. As he slowly comes to his senses he hears police sirens in the distance approaching and he knows that his return will not have gone overlooked. He forces himself to let awareness sink back in, to accept the pain and move anyway. First it's just his neck—he cranes his head up, trying to get a better view of what seems to be the waiting area to a dentist's office, and his vision swims.

The sirens have reached the street beneath him. They must have, because at the peak of their noise they have all stopped.

He hoists himself up as gingerly as possible. There are shards of glass embedded in his back and the backs of his arms and legs.

"Brand new suit," he laments, unable to help the scowl on his face. "_Brand new_."

Being annoyed about the ripped spandex is the only thing that serves as a much needed distraction from the pain of trying to get to his feet. He can't even move the arm of the shoulder that was shot straight through, isn't even sure if he can feel it anymore. His leg is in similarly bad shape, but he limps over to the broken window anyway, and all of his fears are confirmed: below him are at least twenty cop cars, undoubtedly full of men prepared to open fire.

He backs away from the window before they can see him.

He tries to consider his options. The window is obviously out of the question. Not only would he be right line of fire of New York's gun-happy finest, but he is not at all confident in his abilities to sling out of here. He considers the roof, but he has no idea how tall this building is, and he can't fathom walking up the stairs in this condition or taking an elevator that surely the cops were smart enough to shut down.

In the end he settles for running to the other side of the building. He is sure it is surrounded by now, or it's about to be, but he'll take his chances. He limps the distance of the waiting room to an open hallway, forces open a door leading to a plastic surgery practice, and heads to a window that leads to a different street.

He was right, he is surrounded, but this side is skeletal compared to the other one. He doesn't think twice before punching open the window; he's such a bloody mess that another few shards won't make any difference. He takes a quick breath, determined to make this work, to get out of this mess and make it home to Aunt May tonight, and shoots a biocable toward the building parallel to him.

They almost don't notice him; right before he makes it to the other side a few shots ring out, but they miss him, in the only merciful moment the night has offered him. He shoots another web and he stumbles, barely making it across a side street, and that is the moment he knows something is wrong, something beyond his injuries.

His abilities are dissolving again. He slings another web as fast as he can, wondering if he can outrun his own deteriorating body, but finds no such luck. His aim is terrible, his aim is that of a stupid seventeen-year-old who grew up wearing contacts without playing any sports requiring hand-eye coordination. He can't latch onto anything and he tumbles out of the sky, falling into an open dumpster with a thud.

It takes every ounce of willpower he has left in him to roll out of the dumpster and onto the ground. He may be humiliated beyond measure, he may be more useless to this city than a subway, but he will _not_ be cuffed and arrested as dumpster boy.

"There you are."

Peter closes his eyes, not sure whether his groan is one of irritation or relief.

"Can you get up?"

Peter blinks at the man towering from his position on the ground. "Eventually," he says. He doesn't want to look pathetic in front of him, doesn't want to admit to his weakness. For some reason this man has intimidated him from the start and laying here powerless as ever in front of him only surfaces memories of those four mysterious days in that basement he will never have back.

To his surprise, the man crouches down beside him, grabs his shoulders and helps him sit up against the dumpster.

"Where did it hit you?" he asks.

"Uh." Peter furrows his brow, trying to remember. "My shoulder. This one. And my other arm. And my leg—_ah_," he exclaims, as the man jams a needle into his injured shoulder without any warning. "_Jesus_."

"That was a stupid thing you did."

Peter would protest, but he can barely lift his head up to scowl at the man.

"Stupid, and reckless, and entirely like a teenage boy. This is why I didn't want to work with you in the first place," he says, and it sounds an awful lot like he is scolding Peter, in a way he can really only remember his aunt and uncle having done in the past. "You could have waited another ten seconds for me to explain the plan—"

"I figured it out," Peter says, "and besides, it was just shooting at people and—_shit_, a little warning, _please?_"Peter snaps after the man jabs at him again, this time near the exposed leg wound.

The man ignores him. "Your abilities are gone again, aren't they?"

Peter nods, just once.

"You were just going to run out in the street with any abilities at all. That's not heroic, Peter. That is stupid."

The back of Peter's eyes burn. He doesn't want to be sitting here with his entire body stinging in pain, so bone-tired he can barely move and listening to this hostile, unyielding man berate him like a child.

"The only thing you would have succeeded in doing is getting yourself killed."

"What do you care?" Peter challenges him petulantly. He looks up at the man, trying to level with him by meeting his eyes despite the fact that he is still wearing sunglasses. The man doesn't bother to look at him, just sticks Peter again, this time in his arm. Peter can feel his eyes starting to grow heavier. He remembers the last time the antidote froze through his veins, how he tried to resist the quiet and calm that it brought because it only let him think of Gwen, but this time he welcomes the slack feeling in his muscles and the buzzing sensation in his head.

When he looks up again, the man is removing one of the larger shards of glass from his leg. "You have to fix this," Peter says, almost pleading. "It might have been a stupid thing to do but it's who I am now, with or without the abilities. Please."

The man nods solemnly. "I know. I will."

Peter takes a long breath out, trying to sink into the sensation of the antidote coursing through him so he can ignore the pain. A thought occurs to him and he can't believe he didn't ask before.

"Did you get it? The coordinates," Peter asks. "Did I buy you enough time?"

The man's face is grim. "Yes."

"What's wrong?"

The man takes a breath as if he is going to say something, but then he backs up from Peter, giving him a once-over and apparently thinking the better of it. "I have a driver who will take you back to Queens with a note explaining when and where I need you to meet with me next. You're probably not going to be conscious much longer with that much concentrated antidote in you."

Peter doesn't even really have the energy to nod at him, let alone protest to getting in a car with a stranger.

The last thing he remembers before everything gets too hazy to hold on to is the man helping him to his feet, presumably to leave the alley, and saying a very quiet, clipped, "Thank you. For your help."

Peter can't help but grin. "My stupid, reckless help."

Then the part he is sure he has imagined, after he is situated in the back of a black car with tinted windows and the man is about to shut the car door—he hears it like a ghost, maybe, or a whisper of a memory, but as his eyes finally, blissfully start to slide shut, the words are unmistakable in his consciousness: _Be good_.

* * *

Splendid news, everyone! I won't be evicted today! It turns out I may have procrastinated a bit on renewing my lease. And by procrastinated I mean my lease expired today. Woooooops.

How was I supposed to fill out all that paperwork? Don't they know I have Spiderman fanfiction to write?

Anyway. I get to keep this smelly, furniture-less apartment a million miles away from campus for another year. The gods of apartment leases smile upon me.


	21. Chapter 21

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Peter is somewhat awake by the time the car is a few blocks from his address in Queens, and alert enough to remember that he is still in his Spiderman suit. He blearily looks around the car, not actually expecting to see his backpack in the seat next to him, but once he does he pulls the clothes out and slips on jeans and zips up his hoodie and shoves his mask into his pack.

He isn't sure whether or not to thank the driver; he can't see whoever is at the wheel through the divider, and Peter doesn't want to go out of his way to show whoever it is his face. So he gets out of the car, dragging his unbelievably heavy limbs toward the door, and doesn't say a word as the black car drives away.

Aunt May meets him halfway up the walk and it's clear she has been waiting at the door. She doesn't say a word, just puts an arm around his shoulder and helps him up the stairs and into the house. She carefully directs him toward the couch.

"I'm bleeding," he protests, but she sets him down anyway, ignoring him. He settles into the cushions, trying not to groan.

Aunt May sits beside him, looking him up and down, a hand covering her mouth. "Peter," she says, and in that one loaded word he hears all of the worry, the exasperation, the frustration he has put her through in the last few months. He shuts his eyes in an attempt not to look at her. He hates to think he put that weariness in her voice, hates to think that he is the cause of all the extra wrinkles he can see on her forehead and the dark spots under her eyes.

"You said you were going for a _walk_," she finally says, knowing full well that Peter is still conscious.

He wracks his brain for some kind of excuse. "I should have … I should have called …"

"You went into the city, I figured as much after the first hour," Aunt May says, shaking her head, her face crumpling, "and then—I turned on the news, and you weren't picking up your phone, I had no idea if—_eighteen_ people died in that attack today, and I had no idea if you were one of them," she says. "You can't just—Peter, I know it's difficult, but you can't just—"

"I'm sorry," he says, and he thinks of all the terrible, stupid things he has done in the past year, the guilt for this outdoes every one. It is only worse because he knows it's going to happen again and again.

"I know you are. I know. Peter," she says, leaning forward to stroke his hair, then looking stricken when her hand comes back red. "Why do you do this? Why do you always come home like this?"

Peter looks down at the floor.

"I don't want to lose you—"

Peter tries to shake his head. "Aunt May, no, you're not going to—"

"I already _am_," she says over him, "don't you see? You're disappearing, Peter, this is just the beginning, and one of these days—one of these days …" She lets the words sink into the air, unfinished, unthinkable. She holds her head down for a moment, collecting herself, and when her eyes snap up they are still red and puffy but dry. "Let's … let's fix you up."

She reaches out to help Peter up, to pull down the zipper to his hoodie, but he jerks away. "No, no, it's fine," he says, the effort of jerking out of her grasp making his head spin.

"Don't be ridiculous, Peter, look at you—"

"_Don't_," he says, his hands clutching to the hoodie. She reels back, stunned and hurt. He tries to sound reasonable, but the words come out sounding desperate and weak. "Please, don't, Aunt May. It's fine."

"Peter," she says, as if she is talking to some sort of wounded animal, "it's just me."

Their eyes lock. It's the closest they've ever come to acknowledging the dangerous truth. He searches her gaze, wondering if she'll say anything, praying to God that she won't—but if she already knows, then the damage is already done. He swallows and says, "I can't, Aunt May, it's—it's fine, I'm fine."

"Peter," she says, "I've known you since the day you were born. Even if you think you can hide something from the rest of the world, you will never—mark my words—_ever_ be able to hide it from me."

The blood drains out of his face. "What … are you … I just, I don't know what you're talking about," he insists.

"Oh, Peter," she says, and it seems so out of place for her to smile with such sad eyes. "I buy all your clothes. I recognized that jacket the instant I saw it on the evening news, just after Uncle Ben died."

Peter kneads his forehead with his fingers wearily. He thinks of those initial first few days, of the unspeakable exhilaration and insurmountable stupidity of soaring through Manhattan wearing nothing but a mesh mask and his street clothes. He can't decide what to feel. Humiliated that he even tried to hide it from her in the first place, furious with himself that she has had the burden of his secret from the very first day, relieved that he doesn't have to lie to her anymore.

"You dropped this."

"Hm?"

She's holding up a piece of paper she plucked from the floor. Peter honestly can't remember what it is while she's unfolding it, so he doesn't try to stop her, but when her whole face pales as if she has seen a ghost he wishes he had.

"Where did you get this?"

"What is it?"

"You tell me," Aunt May says, her hand almost shaking as she thrusts it toward him.

It's a note from the man, asking him to meet him at an address in the city at a specified time in three days. "Oh," says Peter. "It's … I haven't been alone, trying to stop the robots," he stammers, because he doesn't want to tell her anything more than she needs to know, just in case.

"Where did you get this?" she repeats, and Peter is surprised to see that her expression, her whole posture, is undeniably alarmed. She snatches the note back from him and reads it again, but Peter gets the sense that she's not really reading it so much as staring. "_When_ did you get this?"

"Just now," says Peter uncomfortably, holding his hand back out for her to return it. He has a feeling that whatever has distressed her has little to do with the content. "Why, why do you ask?"

She stares at the note for a long time before she answers, and then with a tiny, disbelieving shake of her head, she hands it back to him. "Nothing," she says. Her hand lingers on his before she pulls away, and she waits until he is looking straight at her to say, "Be _careful_."

"I am. I'm careful."

Her eyebrows shoot up so fast it's almost comical.

"I'll be careful," Peter mumbles. Then they fall silent because they both know that Peter is no good at lying to her.

* * *

He might have slept straight through the night for once, if it wasn't for the call from Gwen that comes in around two in the morning. By some miracle he manages to lift his arm up, hit the "accept call" button and hold the phone up to his ear.

"Peter? Did you just pick up?" he hears her asking before he can even clear his throat.

"Mmff," he answers.

"You're alive. Okay. Okay. Are you okay? What happened? Peter, are you there?"

"Yeah." He squints, trying to adjust to the darkness in his room. "What—where are you?" he asks stupidly.

"Still upstate," she says. "That's why I didn't hear about the attack until now. I mean, for God's sake—another robot, a bunch of _missiles_, it's like, I can't even—I don't want to—you can't keep putting yourself in situations like this."

"I know. My new suit is wrecked."

"That's not funny," she says, "stop trying to be funny about it."

"Fine," he says shortly, because he is fully awake now and it has all come rushing back. He can't help the lingering bitterness toward watching her kiss Richard on Christmas Eve. Why does she even bother to call when she has so clearly moved on?

"You didn't answer any of my questions."

He sighs. "I'm fine," he says, "A little banged up but just … really tired."

"Sorry if I woke you," she says, not sounding very sorry about it at all.

"No, no," he says, "I mean, it's uh, nice to hear from you."

"What _happened?_"

He tries to stretch and thinks the better of it when his muscles grind in protest. "There's just … a lot of stuff I honestly don't know. And a lot of stuff that I do." He has already said too much—now even if he wants to withhold all of the details from her, she'll know that there's something he isn't saying and she will badger him to no end until he tells her. He really needs to stop doing this, needs to stop unloading on Gwen in some combination of wanting her input and wanting her sympathetic ear.

"Well, let's start with what you do know."

"What day are you coming back?"

"Tomorrow, but Peter—"

"I don't really want to talk about it on the phone," he says, which is the truth, even if he has some ulterior motives of wanting to see her in person.

"Oh. Well. Tomorrow I'm … kind of busy."

Neither of them speaks for a moment.

"That's fine," Peter says eventually. "That's great."

"Maybe some other time?"

"Yeah, maybe," he says, noncommittally. He doesn't want to sound at all like he is emotionally invested in meeting with her, doesn't want to betray the fact that he is so disappointed and embarrassed by her blatant rejection that it feels like an elephant just sat on his chest. "Anyway, I'm really tired, so."

"Oh, oh, yeah, I'm sure. Get some sleep. I'll see you around, okay?"

"Yeah," says Peter quietly. He stays on the phone, wondering if she'll say anything else, but then the line goes dead and the phone goes black and he knows she has hung up.


	22. Chapter 22

**Lying Heart**

* * *

The last person he expected to get in touch with him on New Year's Eve is Flash, but the little invite notification pops up on his Facebook page the next morning: "BLACKOUT" is the title of the event, with the tagline, "Drink until you forget 2012!"

Peter has never been to a party, or at least a party of this standard, where at least half of his class will be wasted and vomiting on someone's floor. It's not that he is trying to be responsible or upstanding, he just genuinely has never been interested in attending. For one thing, it's a long ride to the city, one that only seems longer at ridiculous hours like two in the morning. For another, he is terrible at small talk with the classmates he recognizes but doesn't know as well, and anyone he talks to on a regular basis wouldn't be at a party like that, either.

Today is different. He has a dozen stupid excuses why he wants to go. It's his senior year. He has never done anything crazy. Maybe it will give him a chance to loosen up a little bit. But most of all, he thinks, it might take his mind off Gwen, if only for an hour. Who knows—he might even meet a girl there whose dead father hasn't forbidden them from dating, and they'll hit it off, date for a respectable amount of time, marry on a beach and have three kids.

Somehow, though, he really doubts it.

So with the intent of just working up a happy buzz and socializing with classmates for once, he casually mentions the idea of it to Aunt May at the breakfast table.

"No drinking," she says.

He nods without quite looking at her. He figures at far as white lies go, this is the kind she might be grateful for in the midst of everything else—it doesn't get any more normal, dumb teenager than this.

That night he spends almost a half an hour trying to pick out clothes to wear. He wonders what a guy like Flash would wear to a party like this, but then decides he doesn't want to dress anything like Flash anyway, particularly now that he seems to have invested in the entire sparse line of Spiderman apparel. After three or four rejected combinations, he finally settles on the only nice pair of jeans he owns that hasn't been left on top of a bridge or a rooftop, and pairs it with a button-down shirt he hasn't worn since Aunt May's company picnic.

"Hey, man, you _made_ it!"

Flash is beaming, his face beet red, carrying half-full Solo cups in both hands. He pats Peter on the back a little too hard and sloshes what smells suspiciously like rum all over him.

"Yeah, yeah, I guess I did," Peter says, trying to talk above the wall of noise that is Flash's enormous apartment.

"And Doug was just trying to tell me you were too lame for parties," Flash says, his laughter booming over the crowd, still managing to turn heads in this chaos. "Hey! Hey, Doug, look who I found!"

That is the last time Peter sees Flash that night, which is probably for the best. He rubs his shoulder where Flash accidentally clocked him, trying not to wince. He looks around the room, his first priority to find a drink—not because he really needs one, but because at least standing in a drink line gives him some excuse to look busy, because he can't find a single face in this pulsing crowd he could hold a conversation with.

It probably doesn't help that he expects he is the only sober person here. It's ten-thirty, but he has a suspicion there was a lot of pre-gaming in the earlier hours.

Eventually he finds a keg and pours himself a cup of flat, stale beer. A girl asks him to dance and he laughs, realizes she's serious and says, "Oh, uh, thanks, it's just I'm a terrible dancer, I'm sorry." She pours him another beer and a few sips in he changes his mind. He is right. He is a terrible dancer, so terrible that he has probably broken half the shoelaces of people he has encountered in the crowd, but it doesn't seem to matter. This girl he half-remembers from a semester of gym is clearly on her way to wasted, as is everyone else, and the apartment is so jam-packed that he could start having a seizure and people wouldn't recognize the difference between that and his sad attempt at holding a beat.

They dance until the girl falls over him, says, "I love you, Sam," and tries to kiss him. Peter just barely deflects her, sliding out of the thick of the dancing crowd before she even notices he's gone. When he looks back she is already dancing with another guy, so he doesn't feel that bad about it.

Peter checks his watch. 11:30. Then someone punches him so hard in the face that he falls back into the dance floor, knocking over two or three other people as he thuds to the floor.

Everyone around them gasps in unison, so exaggerated and loud that it sounds like a sound effect. Peter holds a hand to his face in surprise, looking up and seeing Richard looming over him.

"The _hell_, man—" Peter starts, but Richard has already moved to kick him in the stomach. Peter scrambles out of the way, easily. It's clear that Richard is beyond a few shots of whatever they were serving in the back. His usual confident, assured stature is now heavy and lumbering and undeniably mad.

Richard advances on him because after Peter hits the wall there's really no place else for him to back up. Richard grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pushes him against the wall, hard. Peter can smell the alcohol on his breath and turns his head away, catching a few wide-eyed stares of people who have apparently decided to do nothing to help.

"I'm not gonna _fight_ you," Peter says, trying to squirm out of Richard's grasp.

"What, suddenly Gwen's not worth it?" Richard spits, pushing Peter against the wall harder than before. It occurs to Peter that Richard is significantly bulkier than he is, which wouldn't be an issue if he had his abilities, but without them is quickly becoming one.

"Kick his ass, Parker!" someone in the crowd yells.

Richard lets him fall from the wall and Peter gasps for air, but not before Richard clocks him. "You're gonna stay the _hell_ away from her, I _warned_ you—"

"Stop," says Peter, struggling to his feet, "seriously, this is _stupid_, Gwen wouldn't want you to—"

Richard throws another punch and Peter manages to duck, sending Richard's fist straight through the wall. People are literally chanting "_fight_, _fight_, _fight_" and Peter imagines himself just sitting with Aunt May on the couch, watching the commotion in Times Square from a safe distance, and sincerely regrets this attempt at being socially competent.

Seeing his fist go through the plaster infuriates Richard even more, and this time when he yanks Peter up again and cocks his fist back, Peter is fairly certain this is the kind of blow that will break his nose and knock him out cold. He tries again to wrench himself out of Richard's grasp without much success. The fist is coming straight toward him when someone, a guy that Peter doesn't recognize, finally intervenes and pulls Richard off of Peter and the three of them all fall to the floor with a painful thud.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?"

All three of them look up to see one outraged, furious Gwen Stacy standing over them.

"Gwen," says Richard, sloppily trying to stand. "I didn't know you were here—"

"You're _drunk_," she says disgustedly, pushing him away so he falls back to the floor. She looks at Peter. "What is this, huh? What do you think you're doing?"

Peter is shocked beyond speech, his head still reeling from the blows. He stares at her incredulously. "What—what do I think _I'm_ doing?"

She is so angry at him that she is shaking. The entire party has stopped to watch her chew them out, but she doesn't pay them any attention, just looks at Peter disappointedly. "Forget it," she says. "I don't want to know. I don't care."

"Gwen." She's walking away so fast that he has to jog to catch up to her. "_Gwen_, would you hold on just a _second_—"

She slams the door of a bedroom in his face, and he twists the knob open before she can think to lock it.

"Go _away_, Peter, haven't you done enough damage for one night?"

At first Peter is so indignant and furious that he can't even think of what to say to her. How dare she, when he wasn't the one who instigated the fight, and in fact just basically let Richard beat him senseless in an attempt to be the better man?

"Of course you'd take his side," Peter says resentfully, "he's mister freaking perfect, isn't he?"

Gwen juts her chin out. "Oh, what's that supposed to mean?"

"You're dating a Ken doll, a fake, a _jerk_. He just practically tried to _kill_ me—"

"Jesus, Peter, you're making such an ass of yourself, like you couldn't defend yourself against an ordinary guy like _Richard_."

"I—" Peter splutters angrily. Of course she doesn't know about his abilities disappearing, he hasn't said a word to her and right now is not the time he wants to discuss something so long-winded and complicated, so instead all that comes out is a less-than-mature, "I saw you kissing him."

"_What?_"

"I _saw_ you. Christmas Eve. I saw you at your window, _kissing_ him—"

"Oh, and what, that's _so impossible _for you to deal with?" she says, legitimately raising her voice now, the flush in her cheeks now turning a violent shade of red. "Yes, I kissed Richard, of course I kissed Richard, more than once, in fact, because I'm _dating _him—"

"Why?" Peter asks petulantly. "What do you even see in him?"

"I see someone who loves me, someone who is there when I need him, someone who _isn't going to leave me!"_ She's borderline hysterical now, her voice raw from exhaustion and alcohol and fury. "This has been, without a doubt, the _worst_ year of my life. My father _died_, Peter. He _died_. And as if that wasn't enough—as if I couldn't sink any lower, my life couldn't possibly get any worse, the _one person_ I thought I could depend on _ignored me_." There are angry tears streaming down her face but they do nothing to deter her speech. "Can you even possibly imagine what that feels like? Being _impossibly_ alone—"

Peter must have unconsciously twitched, because she holds up a hand and says, "_No_, you don't, because the kind of alone you are is an alone that you _chose._ I had no choice, Peter, you cut me out without even bothering to tell me why, and when I needed you most." The last words come out in a sob, long and low, like something that is dying in her throat. She covers a hand in front of her face, muffling her next words, but it is still impossible to miss them: "You _ruin_ me, Peter."

Peter can honestly say he has never seen someone cry like this before—not when his mother had to leave him, not even when Aunt May learned that Uncle Ben was dead. She cries like there isn't any air, big, hiccupping sobs that make her shoulders jerk and her jaw tremble. He stands there, wondering why this is such a surprise to him, wondering why he didn't recognize everything she had been holding inside of her all these months. It's his fault. He did this. He is the reason why she is falling apart. He is the only one who can put her back together.

He crosses the room. For a moment he is afraid he has no idea what to do, but once he has reached her he doesn't even have to think. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her in, and for a moment she is so stunned that she relaxes and lets herself sob into his chest, but the moment doesn't last long.

"Don't," she says, wriggling, holding her fists against his chest, doing everything short of pulling away. "Don't, _don't_."

He ignores her. He isn't going to leave her this time. "I'm sorry," he says.

This only escalates her crying, but she isn't trying to pull away anymore. "I'm sorry," he says again, "I'm so sorry, Gwen."

They stay like that for a long time, her head pressed against his chest until she stops crying and just quakes and stands there in his arms. At some point they hear a drunken, celebratory countdown from the main room. Neither of them moves as the new year descends on them.

Gwen breaks the silence first. "It's always you, Peter," she says, with so much weariness and disillusionment that he knows she doesn't mean it as a good thing. "No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do. I can't stop."

He just stands there and holds her. He is breaking the promise, and if he isn't right now, he is sure that he will later. It's the kind of moment that breathes truth into all the other moments before and after, the kind of moment that defines them and everything they will be. He can't walk away from this. He tries to imagine that if Gwen's father could see her now, that if he truly had loved his daughter, he would have to agree.

* * *

Confession time: I wanted to imitate Gwen Stacy so bad that I bought a pair of high boots since she kept wearing them in the movie, and they just came in today, and they are SO BADASS. Like, I feel like a rock star. If anybody else wants a pair they're on sale for twenty five bucks at Old Navy's website, they're the gray faux suede riding boots. This sounds a lot like sneaky product placement (I wish), but I'm not usually a fan of their stuff and right now I'm like PLEASE CAN IT BE COLD SO I CAN WEAR THESE PUPPIES.

I may have also purchased a headband. (I have, however, made enough terrible miscalculations in my life to know that I will never, ever, EVER look good with bangs, so that's out of the question).

This way Andrew Garfield will like me, right?


	23. Chapter 23

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Peter walks Gwen back to her place sometime around one in the morning, and doesn't hear from her New Year's Day at all after that. He stays awake well after the party repairing his suit. Sometime after the sun comes up he puts the kettle on the stove and actually manages to have breakfast ready before Aunt May comes in.

Peter grins proudly as she walks in, but as soon as she looks at him she scowls. "You said you were going to a _party_," she accuses him.

"What? I did," he says, offering her a cup of tea, trying to impress her.

She doesn't even look at the counter. "Then what happened to the side of your face?"

Peter touches his cheek, the one Richard drove his fist into, and winces at the memory. For some reason he feels far removed from it, even though it only happened a few hours ago. "Oh," he says. "The, uh. The dancing got—a little out of control."

"Peter."

"What?"

Her eyes are trained on his, unrelenting. He sighs.

"Gwen has a boyfriend," he says into his bowl of cereal, "and he doesn't like me very much."

Aunt May looks a bit surprised by this but is all too willing to accept his explanation. It irritates him how well she can distinguish the truth from a lie. "No, I imagine he wouldn't," she agrees. She takes her mug of tea and sits down beside him, still looking at him carefully. "What … exactly happened?"

"I didn't hit him back, if that's what you're asking," Peter says.

The slight relaxation of her shoulders tells him that that's exactly what she was asking. "So he started it?"

"Aunt May," Peter protests, "when have I ever_ started_ a fight?"

Her eyes glint knowingly. "Trouble seems to follow you."

He shrugs. He doesn't really have a good counter-argument for that one.

"Doesn't it bother Gwen that she is dating a person who resorts to violence?"

Peter considers this. He understands that Aunt May is concerned for Gwen's well-being, and as much as it irks Peter, he really, truly knows that Richard would never lay a hand on her. "He was really drunk, and in his defense … I've been … well, I hang out with Gwen a lot. But he's good to her. He—he's a nice guy." The words feel like acid on his tongue and even taking an unnecessarily long sip of tea doesn't help. He looks up and sees that Aunt May is looking at him warily. "Look, I'm the last person on earth who should want to defend him, but he's alright, I guess."

He left out the daily crossword for Aunt May to start, but she hasn't touched it and looks pensive, so he knows the subject hasn't been dropped yet. "I think Gwen deserves better than alright," she says after a few moments, proving him right.

Aunt May knows a lot of things already, but Peter won't ever tell her about that night he watched Gwen's father die, the night he listened to the last promise of a dying man. The memory of it is almost sacred, the burden his alone to bear. He doesn't want her knowing and trying to talk him out of it, or worse, knowing and agreeing with him. He doesn't want anybody's input or advice because after last night it is clear that he hasn't decided what kind of person he is: someone who keeps his word, or someone whose word means nothing.

"There's no use in punishing yourself. It's clear that she likes you."

There it is—the temptation to ignore the captain, coming from the one other person in the world who might be able to sway him. Peter shakes his head, just once, not even letting her words register in his consciousness.

"She's with Richard," he says, "and besides, Gwen and I are just … we're friends."

* * *

The address the man meets him at later the next day is a block away from OsCorp. It's another basement, similar to the one Peter met him at before, but now he feels considerably less anxious about following him down the stairs. Maybe because he knows it's a different place, or maybe because he isn't as wary of the man as he used to be. By now he has had plenty of chances to betray Peter but instead he actually seems, if Peter is not mistaken, to somewhat care about his well-being.

"You brought your suit?"

"It's under my clothes," says Peter, glancing around the lab that the man leads him into impatiently. "You finished the serum?"

He nods. "In the interest of exercising caution, though, after I administer it I would like to wait a few minutes to make sure there aren't any complications."

"Well, there weren't any real ones last time," says Peter. "Except for the part when it stopped working."

"I can assure you I designed this one in a way that will fully restore your abilities. This isn't a quick fix like last time, but should serve as a catalyst that speeds up the restoration of your abilities, which otherwise might take a few more weeks." He holds up the needle and says, "It's going to take a bit longer to inject, sit down over here and try not to move."

Peter tries not to hiss as the needle sinks into his neck. He doesn't feel the same euphoria pulsing through his veins as he did with the last injection, but instead a dull ache, as if he can feel his muscles whining in protest. He grits his teeth, and only after the man removes the needle does he realize he was holding his breath and lets out a small gasp of air.

"What _was_ that?"

The man sets the needle back down on a counter. "I've come to discover that your father was incorrect in assuming how his formula would manifest in you. As it turns out, once you reached the end of maturation, this was going to happen to you no matter what. The spider bite was only a catalyst—and the serum I injected you with a few weeks ago halted it. In order to set the catalyst back in motion, rather than wait until you were fully matured, I had to harvest the spiders from OsCorp."

Peter shakes his head. It's too much to absorb all at once, and he is still fixated on first bit. "So you're saying … I was always going to be like this," says Peter, dumbfounded. "My father—if he really did do this to me—no, he wouldn't have made a mistake like that."

"I'm afraid he did," says the man, not quite looking at Peter. "By the time you were eighteen or nineteen this would have happened regardless of that spider bite. A lot more gradually, but inevitably nonetheless."

Peter rubs the injection site with the palm of his hand. He doesn't want to think about this. It doesn't matter—what's done is done, and he can't ask his father the hundreds of questions littering his brain because he's dead. Either way, Peter's fate has already been sealed by a ghost.

Somewhat tentatively, he yanks at the armrest of the metal chair he is seated on, and it rips off easily and noisily.

"Huh," says Peter, staring at the chunk of metal in his hands. "Well, it worked."

* * *

After an hour or so has passed and the man is certain that Peter isn't going to suffer any drastic side effects, he explains that for now their goal is to infiltrate the OsCorp weapons department, because he tracked the signal to an unregistered computer within its confines.

Peter checks his watch. It's almost midnight. "We're just going to stroll into OsCorp?" he asks skeptically.

The man does not appreciate Peter's doubt. "Unlike you, I can assure you that I have planned this infiltration far in advance and I know what to expect. Thanks to the high security clearance I had back when I was working with your father, I still have access to most of the inside information at OsCorp. Most of the weapons department has either dispersed in fear of being blamed for information about their patented lasers somehow being leaked to a mad man, and those who have remained are likely to be in a conference outside of the city discussing the matter, where they feel they are safer."

By the man's tone Peter can tell his disrespect for OsCorp runs deeper than he initially thought. While Peter agrees that the employees are certainly acting like cowards, he can't exactly blame them.

"You still haven't told me anything about the man responsible for the robots," Peter says, trying not to sound accusatory.

"I'm afraid that is for your own good."

The way he says it reminds Peter so much of the way Uncle Ben used to talk to him that Peter's first instinct is to accept the man's lacking explanation and duck his head down the way he might when an adult chastised him. Then Peter can't help the scowl that crosses his features. Who is this man, and why does he think he's allowed to talk to Peter like this? Even adults he has known for years from school or part-time jobs have never talked to him like this, and here this man he knows virtually nothing about, this man he has really only known for a few weeks, thinks he can patronize Peter like this without a second thought?

"I thought we trusted each other now," Peter says guardedly.

The man opens the door to the lab, waiting for a moment so Peter knows to follow him. Grudgingly, Peter gets up and walks out the door with him, into the open area they initially met an hour or so before.

"As I said before, I trust that you are well-intentioned," says the man. "However, I do not and cannot trust your judgment."

"What?" Peter manages, feeling his face burn. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Tell me right now that if I gave you even a hint of who was behind this, you wouldn't try to go after them."

"I wouldn't," says Peter immediately, but even he doesn't quite believe himself.

"You tell yourself that now, but we cannot afford to take that risk. If he manages to get a hold of you, he has the deadliest weapon of all—the formula, inextricably tied to your DNA, will be his, and there is no telling what he will do with it." The man stares at Peter through his sunglasses. "You think of yourself as a hero, but you have to understand that in the hands of an appropriately learned scientist, you can also be the greatest weapon this city has ever seen."

A few beats pass, and once the man has let his words sink in, he abruptly turns away and heads toward another door not far from them.

"I wouldn't have gone after him," Peter mumbles one more time for good measure, but the man is ignoring him now.

"The reason I chose to meet you in this location is the existence of an underground tunnel that should lead to one of the biocontainment labs. It's a little known evacuation tunnel that I believe hasn't been used since the nineties. Once we're inside," he continues, "it should only be a short walk to the weapons lab. I disabled the internal cameras an hour ago, which should not raise too much suspicion as the weapons lab has taken to disabling the cameras of their own accord—nobody wants to be connected to this mishap, I suppose."

"I don't understand," says Peter. "Why do you even need me?"

"I probably don't," the man admits. "But it is always difficult to weigh all the potential risks in a situation like this. And that aside, I felt you deserved to be involved."

Peter perks up a little bit at this, and then immediately regrets the little skip in his step that follows. He shouldn't want this man's approval, and certainly shouldn't show any signs of being pleased by it.

Their entry into OsCorp tower is surprisingly smooth. Most of the lights are off. It's still technically the holidays, and it's late, so for once OsCorp seems to be empty. It's only when they reach the first handprint recognition pad that Peter thinks they've encountered an obstacle, but the man lifts his hand up to the pad without hesitation and the doors slide open.

"You said you hadn't worked for OsCorp for years," Peter says a bit suspiciously.

"I haven't. My data was just never erased from the security clearance logs."

"Why?"

"Because they believe I'm dead."

Peter wants to ask more, but they have now reached the weapons lab and he is shocked into silence. He has never seen so many things that could kill him in one room at the same time. There are contraptions he can't even begin to recognize. There are guns and there are tanks and there are contained shooting ranges for testing and the room seems to go on forever like this, just one deadly device after another.

It really disconcerts Peter that these are just chilling out in a major building in Manhattan.

"This isn't the room we need," says the man, striding past all the weaponry as if it doesn't surprise him at all. Peter follows, having to jog every now and then to catch up because he keeps getting distracted staring up at the walls. The next door the man leads them to doesn't need just a handprint, but also a series of codes, which the man enters with confidence.

Peter immediately senses as soon as the door opens that they aren't alone; apparently so does the man, because he whips out a gun on his person that Peter didn't even know existed in the time it takes Peter to blink.

"Don't move," the man demands.

The girl obeys, petrified, throwing her hands up. Peter's eyes widen in disbelief.

"_Gwen?_"

* * *

OTHER songs that go well with the web crawling universe: "I Was Never a Normal Boy" by Nightmare of You (the chorus, not the verse, I never know what artsy hipster verses of songs are getting at) and "It Doesn't Matter" by Alison Krauss.

Anyway, it's time for me to go to an outdoor concert and dance around like an idiot. To give you a sample of the kind of day I had, I wore a nice flowy skirt to work today, and when I asked a two year old to please go dry his hands, he stuck his fists in aforementioned skirt and rubbed his paws against it for all he was worth.

The good news is, I was only spat up on twice.


	24. Chapter 24

**Lying Heart**

* * *

"Pe—" Gwen stops herself, her whole face reddening, wide eyes shifting between Peter and the gun in the man's hand.

Peter crosses over to her. "Put that thing _down_," he snaps, even though he is safely in between the two of them and he's reasonably certain the man won't shoot him down.

The man stands his ground. "Who are you?"

"Gwen," she stammers. "Gwen Stacy."

"What are you doing here?"

"Put down the _gun_," Peter yells. "_Now_."

The man finally seems to register Peter's demand and stares at the two of them incredulously. "You know each other," he says, shifting the gun away from them but not quite putting it down. "You _know_ each other?"

Peter purses his lips. He knows this looks bad, especially from the man's perspective. Here he already believed that Peter was irresponsible and reckless about his decisions as Spiderman, and now that he knows that Peter has revealed his identity to a teenage girl, it admittedly seems as if Peter has only proved him right.

"Yes," Gwen finally answers in a small voice.

"Let me get this straight," says the man evenly, but Peter can tell he is angry by the way his jaw is set. "You risked _everything_, the safety of not only yourself but your _family_, by telling some silly high school girl your identity?"

"It's not like that," says Peter, even though it is, technically. "You don't understand, Gwen isn't just—"

"Some high school girl who _works for OsCorp_, no less," he says, having seen the badge of Gwen's lab coat.

"If you would just _listen_—"

"Just when I think you couldn't possibly be more careless about these abilities, you show thiskind of disregard for yourself and everyone around you by—"

"Who the _hell _are you?" Gwen finally interrupts, taking a few indignant strides forward so Peter is no longer shielding her. "Because I'm going to assume you don't know Peter very well if you think for one second he's been careless about this, because believe me, he goes to unbelievably _infuriating_ lengths to keep the people who are close to him safe, _that_ I can assure you."

The man stares at her, not looking at all surprised by her outburst, still not quite setting down the gun. "I see," he says. "The two of you may be somehow romantically involved, but that doesn't make this any less ill-advised."

"We're not," says Peter, and for a moment the situation strikes him as almost comical. He's standing hear in a full spandex suit trying to explain his not-relationship to Gwen Stacy to a man holding a gun. "We're—uh."

"We go to the same school," Gwen supplies.

It is obvious by the way the man's eyebrows are raised that he doesn't believe them, but at least he stashes the gun away again. "Either way, you obviously have no business being in these quarters. I suggest you leave before I report you."

Peter rolls his eyes from under his mask, knowing full well the man can do no such thing. "What are you even doing back here?" he asks Gwen, turning away from the man.

"Trying to help you," says Gwen a bit sheepishly.

They haven't seen or spoken to each other since the eruption of New Year's Eve and the awkward, silent walk back to her place. Peter has been fairly wrapped up in this business with the robots over the past few days, but that isn't to say he hasn't spent every moment not occupied with that thinking of Gwen. He thought that maybe she had dropped the incident altogether, that she had decided to pretend it hadn't happened. He is both relieved and disappointed that she clearly hasn't, as evidenced by her little trip into the weapons department for him. Before he can express any sort of gratitude, though, the man speaks up again, his tone harsh.

"I doubt you'll be of any use."

"Excuse me?" Gwen says, incredulous, all signs of sheepishness immediately erased from her features. "You never answered my question. Just who are you, anyway?" She looks to Peter as if he might be able to supply an answer, but Peter unhelpfully looks away.

Predictably, the man deflects the question with one of his own: "How did you even know to be in here?" He looks at Peter. "How much have you been telling her?"

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out that this is the only active computer in the entire weapons department," Gwen snaps at him. "And Peter didn't have to tell me anything—I happen to work here, I recognized those lasers the very first time the robot attacked."

If she was expecting the man to be impressed, she must be disappointed, because he looks every bit as irritated and suspicious as he did when he first walked into the room. He walks a few steps forward so that he's uncomfortably close to her, and Peter would intervene, but she stands up straighter and her eyes level with his unwaveringly and she seems to be doing just fine on her own.

"How am I supposed to know you aren't working with the man behind all of the attacks?" the man says in a threatening tone. Peter realizes now that the man was never truly suspicious of him, because he has never heard him talk like this before.

"I'm just a silly teenage girl," Gwen says, mocking the man's earlier choice of words.

This seems to rattle the man more than ever before. "Tell me everything you know _right now_, or I'll have to assume that you're working for him, and believe me—"

"Don't talk to her like that," says Peter angrily.

The man rounds on him now. "How well do you _really_ know this girl?" he asks. "You're young, you have to understand, you can't just let your feelings cloud your judgment. You find this girl in a secluded, off-limits section of OsCorp, the in front of the one computer that has enough information to kill you, and you just take her word that she isn't—"

"That's enough," says Peter. "Yes, I take her word, I take her word over yours any day."

The man looks like he has a thousand reasons to protest this, but Peter cuts him off before he can start.

"She is the reason I'm _alive_. There was an attack before you even showed up, you know, an attack where I was shot and if she hadn't been clever enough to find the antidote, I'd be dead—which is a lot more than I can say for you, since it's your fault I've been completely _powerless_ for two weeks," Peter fumes, "so don't you dare say anything against her. She has been on my side from the beginning, and I still don't even have any idea who you are."

"What are you talking about, powerless—" Gwen starts, but the man interrupts.

"If she's so trustworthy then she won't mind stepping aside and letting us take a look at the computer she has apparently hacked," says the man.

Gwen forgets about her concern with Peter, steeling her eyes angrily at the man. "Not at all," she says, "if Peter thinks it's okay."

Peter nods reluctantly. The man waits for Gwen to move over and then scans the documents she has opened.

"How did you get into this computer? The codes are encrypted to—"

"Set off alarms if certain hacking methods are used. I'm aware," says Gwen haughtily, "and I went to all possible lengths to do this carefully."

Peter watches the man click onto several different open files and check their pathways. "I see," the man says, a begrudging acceptance of Gwen's work. He takes another few moments to pore over all the open files. "If this is what I think it is, it will be easier to find the man responsible than I thought."

"What is it?" asks Peter, who still hasn't had a good look at the screen. He's been staring at Gwen, somewhat awed, not just by the drastic measures she has taken to help him, but by her gutsiness against his overly suspicious partner. The first time Peter met him he was nowhere near as eloquent or mature. Gwen is something else, he decides.

As if to prove his point, she says, "It's a new design, or a rough draft of a new design, and it looks as if … well, it looks as if it's meant to be manned, so someone will be controlling it from the inside."

* * *

They spend another half an hour in the backroom, but none of the other files are particularly enlightening, and at some point the man says that they might have overstayed their welcome. "I'll be in touch," he tells Peter curtly, clearly not having forgiven him for the matter of telling Gwen his identity, or for defending her as emphatically as he did. He escorts them out of OsCorp, then walks in the opposite direction of them without another word.

"I'll walk you home," says Peter.

She sticks her hands in her pockets and hunches her shoulders up against the cold. "So," she says, offering him a crooked, somewhat nervous grin.

He almost laughs. Aside from the extreme stress of the last half hour, there is still the lingering awkward, unspoken issue of the other night that they haven't dealt with, but when he smiles lopsidedly back, most of the tension seems to dissolve. It is a relief to know that no matter how bad it gets between them, they can feel somewhat at ease again without even saying a word. He thinks maybe they are unique like that, in the way they are so in sync. He has never felt this way with anybody before. He doubts she would ever feel this way with Richard. And as curious as he is how she handled him after the debacle on New Year's, he wisely doesn't ask.

"Who _is_ that guy?" Gwen asks, skipping over the fight completely.

Peter is all too happy to leave that mess for sorting later. "I first met him after the second attack. He's the one who was disabling the robots after I sunk the first one, he was shooting some sort of devices that disabled them. He, uh, didn't like me very much when I met him—"

Gwen snorts.

"Yeah, hard to imagine," Peter agrees. "But he really, _really_ didn't want me involved … and you know how I, uh. I wasn't around that one week."

"Yeah," she says gently, looking up at him but clearly trying not to pry.

"This sounds … weird. It was. But after the third attack he hit me with a tranquilizer, and honestly all I remember is waking up in a basement—tied to some chair." He gives himself a second, just in case, but he thinks that maybe he has relived the scenario so many painstaking times that it doesn't make him react so viscerally anymore. "He wanted a lot of answers … he had developed some sort of serum, and my abilities were gone."

Gwen processes this for a moment, and they walk in silence, her mouth pursed as if she is trying to recollect everything that has happened in the past two weeks and can't decide which issue to address first. "Peter … is that why—is that why you weren't out as Spiderman that whole time? You didn't have your abilities anymore?"

He nods. "I didn't get them back until today, actually," he admits.

"But the fourth attack—"

"A temporary solution," he says, wincing. "A fast-acting serum that barely outlasted the fight."

"That man is sick," says Gwen. "He locked you up in a basement for _four days_. How on earth can you trust him?"

Peter thinks about this. "I don't know," he finally says, "I just feel like I have to."

Gwen shakes her head vehemently. "No, you don't," she says, "just because he seems to know a lot about this person behind the attacks doesn't mean that—"

"It isn't just that," Peter says quietly. "He knows a lot of other stuff as well. About … well, my dad. And the formula. They worked together, before he died." He laughs, trying to sound nonchalant about it, but it comes out bitter and strained. "This is gonna sound crazy—but my father, he—well, I didn't … it wasn't the spider bite that did this to me," he says, his voice cracking despite his every effort. "My father had a different formula, one that worked, and … well, before he died, he somehow … well, he altered my DNA with it." He can't quite look at Gwen when he says, "This was going to happen to me whether or not I got bitten. Probably not for another few years, but it was always … it was always going to be this way."

"Peter," says Gwen. He can feel her eyes searching his face, trying to gage what to say, but he still doesn't meet her eye.

"It's just," Peter tries to express. "It's just—crazy, right? I mean," he says, and maybe he is laughing now, maybe it is a little bit funny. "I was _six_ _years old_. That's crazy, right? Who does that to a kid? Who does that to _their kid_, and then _leaves?_"

Gwen wraps her arm around his, and the gesture is so seamless and comforting that at first Peter doesn't even notice it.

"I know it sounds backwards," she says thoughtfully, "but he probably did it because he loved you."

Peter blinks at her in surprise. "Well, that's a pretty terrible way to love your kid," he says, unable to suppress the bitterness in his voice this time.

She smiles a sad little smile and says, "Sometimes there isn't a good way to love someone."

* * *

Okay. I know this update is coming like four hours early. But I've got another gig tonight (at a coffeehouse! the artsiest of artsy!) that's going to last until pretty late and since my break from work today was heinously late in the afternoon, I figured I'd just post this now instead of letting everyone think I'd abandoned them.

In the meantime, I need to get back to the baguette and hunk of cheese from the grocery store that became lunch after I stupidly left mine in the fridge this morning. Wish me luck. The babies know it's Friday so they're doing their worst, probably so I remember who's boss over the weekend. I live in constant fear of people who can't even talk.


	25. Chapter 25

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Peter has never felt more out of place at school. Vacation was only a week and a half but he feels as if he hasn't been here forever, as if he has grown several years since the last time he opened this locker. It takes him a little while to even remember the combination, and once he does he can't remember which books he is supposed to grab—it's a whole different schedule to memorize, a new semester with completely different subjects and teachers, something that Peter would usually pay more attention to, but for obvious reasons his mind was elsewhere.

Gwen passes him in the hallway and waves, unwittingly defining how their school relationship would be: open and friendly. People take notice, only because the buzz hasn't quite died down about the fight between Peter and Richard. Fortunately Peter doesn't cross paths with him on that first day, or worse, him and Gwen together.

His first track is his college-track biology course, one of the few classes that carried over a semester with all the same people, so Peter is surprised when a face he doesn't recognize sits next to him. He doesn't look up from his scribbling except to say hello, and the other boy doesn't seem too eager to talk, either. Only when the teacher announces that she is sick of assigning lab partners and that they are permanently paired up with whoever they're sitting next to at the present do the two of them bother to speak again.

"You're Peter," says the boy, once he gets a good look at his face.

Peter frowns. "I thought—sorry, I don't think I know you, I thought you were new."

"I am," he says, "I'm Fisher."

"Oh. Well, uh, nice to meet you … Fisher," Peter says somewhat hesitantly, because Fisher is still looking at him as if he expects that Peter knows who he is.

"You don't remember me," Fisher says, with a half-smirk.

Peter shakes his head. "Should I?"

"I'm the guy who hauled that lug off you on New Year's Eve before he knocked all your teeth out."

"Oh," says Peter, his face reddening at the memory. He had almost completely forgotten about the third boy who intervened and had, most likely, spared him a lot of dental bills. "Yikes. I guess I should thank you."

Fisher shrugs. "He was pretty drunk, it wasn't very hard to knock him off balance."

Peter tries to smile for the other boy's benefit. "Well." He clears his throat, trying to think of a more acceptable topic, the kind that doesn't make him want to look over his shoulder to make sure Richard isn't listening. "You are new, though, right?"

"Yeah. Mid-year transfer. I'm a junior."

"Oh. Nice. Welcome to Midtown Science," Peter says lamely, and by then the teacher is explaining the first lab of the semester so the conversation dies down. They find that they work well together, better than Peter has with any of his less-than-motivated lab partners in the past. By the end of the track Peter finds that they are enthusiastically engaged in a conversation about some movie that came out awhile back, and he thinks this is nice, nice and normal. When he thinks about it he hasn't had a real friend in awhile.

"You board?" Fisher asks when Peter picks up his backpack.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, just back and forth from the subway. I live in Queens."

"Brooklyn," Fisher offers. "I know some pretty awesome places to ride, if you're interested."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Peter agrees.

They set a loose time up to meet the next day. He wonders when he tells Aunt May he's going out skateboarding with a friend if she will believe him in the slightest.

* * *

"Congratulations," says Mr. Carter, beaming at Peter as he enters the photography classroom.

Peter stands there, his eyes narrowing in confusion. It's far too soon for any news on his applications, so he figures Mr. Carter is joking about something, but he can't even begin to imagine what.

"The internship," Mr. Carter clarifies for him, ushering him toward his desk. "You got it."

"Internship?"

"At the Daily Bugle," Mr. Carter reminds him. "I sent in that picture you took of Spiderman, remember?"

"Oh," says Peter, and suddenly it all comes rushing back. He honestly hasn't thought of that internship since the day Mr. Carter asked for permission to submit him for it. And as honored as he is that Mr. Carter went to all this trouble for him, as pleased as he is that someone liked his picture enough to want to work with him, he can't think of a single good use for this internship, especially if he is wasting daylight hours he could be using to make money at a part-time job.

When he looks up, Mr. Carter is full-on grinning with excitement. "Jonah Jameson himself requested you. That picture of Spiderman really won him over."

Peter feels his palms start to sweat. "It did?" he asks.

"Yeah, it did. I'm sure it's because nobody's ever seen anything like it. I mean, how lucky, I can't even imagine how you got a shot that perfect," says Mr. Carter, seeming genuinely impressed and perplexed. He points a finger at Peter. "You gotta get yourself ready, I'm sure he'll want more where that came from."

Peter laughs nervously. Getting the pictures really isn't a problem. Explaining them is a whole different story.

"Look," he starts, but Mr. Carter doesn't seem to hear him.

"He wants you to start day, as soon as you get off school."

"Today?" Peter asks, a bit stunned. "Okay. Wow, um. I'll see what I … I mean, yeah, today's fine," he says, because he really doesn't have anything better to do until night falls.

"Perfect. Good luck on your first day," says Mr. Carter, and then the bell rings and Peter has to find his seat. He couldn't say what happened on the first day of photography that semester, because all he is thinking about is the thousand and one ways this could go wrong. Either he pretends he can't get another shot and ruins his credibility and loses Mr. Carter's respect, or he gets another shot and has to deal with demands for more, which will eventually require some sort of logical explanation besides Peter Parker, ambulance chaser and Spiderman stalker extraordinaire.

By the time he finishes his last track he decides he isn't going to worry about it. He has nothing to lose by going to their offices today, and even if they hate him, it's not like he wanted this internship anyway.

* * *

_Pregnant with Spiderman's baby!_

Peter gapes at the headline, at a picture of a woman he has most certainly never seen in his seventeen years of life. He only meant to pick up the Daily Bugle to get some idea of what he was about to be walking into—he didn't expect to see page after page about Spiderman's secret lovechild and his supposed repeated sex scandals. Besides the fact that almost a hundred percent of the women claiming to have had intimate nights with him could be charged with statutory if the claims were true, he can't believe anyone would print this garbage or believe any of these crazy looking women.

"Such a shame, isn't it?" says the vendor of the news stand, a girl in her mid-twenties with a bunch of piercings. "Guy gets a little bit of fame and thinks he can sling those webs all over the place, you know what I mean?"

"No," Peter stammers, feeling an uncomfortable, embarrassed heat crawl up his neck. "No, Spiderman wouldn't—he wouldn't do this."

"Aw, sweetie," she says. "What are ya, fifteen?"

Peter scowls.

"Probably too late to return your Spiderman lunchbox, huh."

Peter throws the newspaper down back on the stand. "Never mind," he says.

"Hey," she calls after him, "You crumpled half the pages, kid, you gotta buy it now—"

Peter ignores her, near stomping the next few blocks toward the Daily Bugle's offices. He has never really looked at the papers, has never really cared much for the articles about Spiderman, and now he's wondering if he should have paid more attention. How many other crazy rumors are people spreading about him? When did Spiderman go from being a vigilante to a B-list celebrity? The worst part is, he can't even defend himself. He's not stupid enough to talk to the press, he knows his voice sounds young and would give him away in an instant. And he would like to think he's above the media storm.

The way his fists are curled at his sides say otherwise.

By the time he reaches the Daily Bugle office he has calmed down somewhat. It was probably just a one-time thing, something meant to sell papers on a slow week. Now that he's here, though, maybe he'll have a chance to see some legitimate journalism.

Peter is directed toward a door with the nameplate J. Jonah Jameson. He knocks.

"What do you want?" asks a coarse voice.

"Uh," Peter stammers, not quite sure whether or not he should open the door.

"Well? Who the hell is it?"

Peter cracks the door open a bit. "Peter Parker, sir. I'm here for the, uh—the internship?"

"I can't hear a damn word you're saying. Has anyone ever told you you sound like a mamsy-pamsy? Get in here and talk like a man."

Peter walks in, trying his best not to look as irritated as he feels. "I'm here for the internship," he says loudly.

"Jesus, no need to yell." Jameson takes a long puff of his cigar and pulls out a photo—the one that Peter took of himself as Spiderman a few months ago. He scrutinizes it for a moment. "It's a horrible picture, really, it's obviously a fake." He abruptly thrusts another piece of paper at Peter. "Sign here so I can release it."

Peter holds up the document, not yet reading it. "It isn't a fake," he says defensively. He looks over the form. It's some sort of permissions, acknowledging that once he signs he has no control over where, how, or when the photo is released, essentially signing off all ownership to it so that it becomes the sole property of the Daily Bugle.

"Would you hurry up? I don't have all day."

"I'm not signing this," says Peter.

Jameson's eyebrows shift in a way that Peter can only describe as violent. "What do you mean you're not signing it?"

"Look, is this really an internship or do you just want to use this photo to plaster a bunch of lies about Spiderman?" Peter asks, already sick of being pushed around by this guy at this internship he didn't even want.

"A bunch of lies?" Jameson says incredulously. "That man is a menace and the public deserves to know the truth."

"I disagree," says Peter.

Jameson considers him for a moment. "Well it's gonna cost you this internship."

"That's just fine," says Peter, collecting his things and handing Jameson back the form. Only when his hand touches the knob does Jameson speak again.

"I'll give you fifty bucks for it."

This gives Peter pause. "What?"

"Fine. Seventy-five. You're just a kid, what more could you want?"

Peter's thoughts are suddenly racing. This has potential. Seventy-five bucks could buy him half of a used textbook, granted he gets into a college. He knows that this is all kinds of wrong, that he is practically selling himself, but really, what's the harm? It's not like Spiderman is asking for money for his services. Peter just happens to be profiting from them.

Jameson has mistaken his silence as a bargaining tactic. "A hundred. But that is my final offer, you grubby little thief."

Peter rounds on him. "Two hundred."

"That's ridiculous, absolutely not—"

"Two hundred or I'm selling it to the Globe."

Jameson's eyes narrow. "Two hundred it is."

* * *

Okay. Okay. I know I didn't update last night. But guys, my pretend singing career was keeping me really busy all weekend, and I try really hard to stay a few chapters ahead of what I'm posting and was getting dangerously close to catching up with myself, so I just needed a day to sit on it. Anyway. Sorry for the disappointment. Hopefully the fact that I used the word "mamsy-pamsy" in a fanfiction just now will make up for it (I have decided, at some point, to incorporate the word "rubbernecking" somewhere-I will MAKE IT WORK, it's just such a funny word. Maybe I'll just insert it in the middle of a really dramatic scene just to completely wreck the moment. We'll see.)


	26. Chapter 26

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Peter's picture makes the front page of the Daily Bugle the next morning. The headline underneath it reads: _Spiderman—menace behind the robot attacks!_, which should probably offend Peter a lot more, but he is somewhat relieved that this at least seems more like legitimate journalism than the three children he supposedly fathered. That is, until he turns to the style section, which boasts the delightful headline: _Spiderman sex tape scandal!_

"Ouch," he hears a voice behind him say.

He swivels in his chair and sees Gwen standing behind him, reading the headline.

"Are you—you're in this class?"

She sits down in the desk next to his and sets down her backpack. "It sure would seem that way," she says wryly.

Peter is so thrown off that it's a struggle to even remember what class they're in right now. He checks the chalkboard. Empty. He checks the book in his hand, the one he was perusing a few seconds before.

"_You're_ taking cinematography?"

She shrugs. "I needed to take at least one class where I wasn't expected to have the periodic table memorized."

Peter himself really only chose this as a blow-off class, figuring his interest in photography would somewhat inspire him to pay attention here. Not to mention, at the time they did sign ups last semester he was only choosing classes he was almost entirely certain would help him avoid one Gwen Stacy. Now that she is sitting beside him with that panel of exposed skin between her mini-skirt and boots that he _shouldn't be looking at_, he isn't certain whether he wants to laugh or scream.

"Anyway, you should probably be more careful the next time you videotape your hookers," says Gwen, pointing to the paper still exposed on his lap.

Peter groans. "This is a disaster."

"Aw, come on. It's just one lousy paper."

"I'm working for them," Peter says grimly.

Gwen looks at the paper again. "You're working for the Daily Bugle?" she asks skeptically. "Since when?"

"Since yesterday," says Peter. He flips the paper back to the front page. "I did this. I mean, not the headline. The picture."

"I saw that in your room, I remember."

Peter unconsciously blushes, thinking of the awkward encounter that followed that in all-too-vivid detail.

"Yeah, well. The guy who runs the paper wanted it. I got two hundred bucks," Peter says, a hole practically burning in his pocket where he held the cash yesterday. He couldn't believe it, how easy it was. Jameson wrote a receipt, told him to hand it to the lady at the front, and just like that there were four fifty dollar bills in Peter's pocket. He honestly could say he'd never even owned a fifty dollar bill, let alone carried an entire two hundred dollars in his pocket all at once. He had an irrational fear he might get jumped on the way back to Queens and lose it all, but then he remembered that he had his abilities back, and felt even more smug about the money than before.

Of course, he'd gone straight home and hidden it in his closet so he wouldn't spend it on anything stupid. Like more spandex.

"Two hundred bucks?"

"Yeah," Peter says, still feeling pretty good about himself.

He hasn't seen such condescending pity in someone's eyes since he watched Flash tell a bunch of second graders Santa wasn't real. "Peter," says Gwen, shaking her head. "That's chump change."

"What? No, it's not," says Peter defensively.

"For a picture like this, it is. Do you know what people are willing to spend to publish a decent photograph of Spiderman?" she asks. "A heck of a lot more than two hundred dollars."

Peter shoves the newspaper back into his backpack with a little more force than necessary. "Well it doesn't really matter anyway, I already sold it," he says as he jams it in.

He freezes when he feels the skin of her hand on his. She is reaching into his backpack, a rather forward gesture that should concern him to some degree, but he is so fixated by the graze of her hand against his that it's hard to think of anything else. Even after she pulls away, having grabbed something out of his books, he is still reliving the accidental moment over and over again.

It's his camera she's holding. She looks up at him, grinning crookedly. "I've got an idea."

* * *

"Stop being so bashful. You've got a mask over your face," calls Gwen, who is currently squinting and holding Peter's camera up to her face. He raises his eyebrows at her, then remembers that she can't see him, so he swings over to the fire escape where she is currently perched trying to take a decent shot of him.

"I'm not," says Peter, even though he is. Somehow all the web-slinging and wall-climbing that comes as second nature in any other situation becomes a struggle when Gwen is scrutinizing his every move through a camera lens, although he couldn't tell her that. "I'm probably just, you know. Rusty. Just got these abilities back."

He isn't rusty, not by a long shot, if last night proved anything—he stopped two carjackings, a bank robbery, _and_ diffused a hostage situation on a roof, all in one night. And for once, nobody even managed to punch him in the face. Peter is certainly a lot of things right now—embarrassed, awkward, a little bit happy—but definitely not rusty.

Gwen pulls the camera away from her face. "I probably didn't get any really great shots. Try that thing again, that one where you were slinging webs out of both hands down the alley, it looked pretty cool but I think I missed the shot by like a mile."

"Go easy on yourself, it's your first time," he says, with joking condescension.

"Oh, please, Parker, I was just being modest. These shots are so good I could sell them and move into a penthouse with my fifty percent cut of the earnings."

"Fifty percent, huh?"

"Am I not the ones taking the shots?"

"Yeah, but I'm the one flying around like an idiot in a full spandex suit who's going to have to re-crop and edit all your shots later."

She swats at the air near him playfully. "Get back to business, bug boy."

He hangs his head like a scolded child but obeys, swinging up a little higher because he knows the angle will be better from there. He watches her, waits to make sure that he's ready before he slings the webs and tears off into the middle of the empty alley. It's sweet, how hard she seems to be concentrating, and the sight of Gwen Stacy holding his camera up to her face almost seems like a postcard from a happier time, before they lost people they cared about, before they ever got caught up in this mess. Not for the first time this afternoon he's glad that the mask is on, because he thinks between the absent-minded grinning and accidental blushing every time they banter he would make a total fool of himself.

He swings toward her and pulls of his mask. "Got it?"

"Dunno," she says, taking a step back as if considering the light.

Peter notices she's about to lose her balance on the fire escape before she does. She opens her mouth to squeal as she topples, but he deftly grabs her with one arm, halting her fall.

"Oh," she manages. "Thanks."

They haven't been this close since New Year's. She is pressed up against him, his arm still wrapped around her waist, her eyes staring at him in hesitation. He wonders what she's thinking about. He wonders if it's Richard. He loosens his grip on her slightly, expecting her to step back, but she doesn't—before he can figure out what this means, her eyes lock on something behind him and grow wide.

Peter turns around, following her gaze. There's a huge cloud of thick, dark smoke on New York's skyline. He turns to Gwen, his face already apologetic.

She offers him a little smile. "What are you waiting for?"

He tightens his grip around her again, locks a biocable onto the fire escape, and sets Gwen gently on the ground. "I don't want to just leave you here," he says, looking around the abandoned alley.

"Let's get out to the street, then, I'll be fine."

She takes off running in those ridiculously tall boots and he follows her until they reach some form of civilization again, the kind where there is a subway stop in sight and most of the people are minding their own business. He can't remember when he put his mask back on but he's ready to go. He starts lifting his arm to sling a biocable, but Gwen grabs it first.

"Hey," she says, knocking him out of autopilot. "Stay safe."

He nods slightly, suppressing the inexplicable, demanding urge to kiss her before he flies off. But even if the promise to her father wasn't enough to halt him, or the fact that she may or may not still be dating Richard, he will never be stupid enough to publicly acknowledge her and put her in danger by associating her with the infamous web-crawler.

He feels bad about slinging a web and soaring upward without another word, but he knows that she understands.

It doesn't take very long to reach the building producing the enormous clouds of smog. At first Peter can't help but wonder if it's another terrorist attack, but by the time he reaches it he sees that it's a localized part of the building that's burning and there doesn't seem to be any impact points. By the way the windows are shattered in a particular place around the twentieth floor, Peter guesses that that's where the fire started. What he can't explain is how it's spreading so fast.

On the ground there are already five fire trucks and by the sound of it, more are coming. Peter doesn't see any police—and even if he did, he doubts that they'd shoot at him under the circumstances.

He scans the area where the windows are smashed and the flames are rising the highest, but a few floors above them he sees a woman holding a toddler standing at her window and waving her arms to get Peter's attention. He swings over to the window with ease, trying to hold his breath against the onslaught of smoke, and motions for her to back up so he can bust her window open. Once he's sure it's all clear, he makes sure the mother's grip on her son is secure, grabs her, and latches a biocable to the window sill.

On his way down he hears something explode, yet again from the source where the windows were all smashed. Peter grits his teeth, sets the pair on the ground, and swings back up, determined to figure out whatever it is setting off the blasts—this last one almost unleveled the whole floor, and if he can stop it from happening again he might be able to stop the building from collapsing before everyone gets out.

He sees other people trapped in windows, though, and he can't ignore them. He figures he can get two at a time, so for another ten minutes he tries his best to hold his breath and squint through the smoke as he swings another seven people down to the ground and toward the emergency vehicles.

When he's certain nobody else is trapped in their apartments, he swings into the open windows of the room that he suspects is the source of all the explosions. As soon as he gets inside he realizes it's a lost cause, trying to fix anything in here—the smoke is practically black and he can't see a thing. He stumbles and gasps unintentionally, sucking the smoke into his lungs, and once he starts coughing he can't stop breathing it in.

At this point Peter accepts that he is in over his head. He can almost hear the man's choice words—stupid, reckless, thoughtless, among others—and at this moment he is inclined to agree. He turns back to the window, fully intending to leave, but something gives him pause.

If he isn't mistaken, it looks like in the next room there is a giant metal robot arm, one that, to Peter's horror, he recognizes all too well.

He is so preoccupied staring at it that when the next blast fires he only has enough time to look up and see the giant, burning panel of the ceiling just before it slams him to the ground.

* * *

I get it, I get it. All anyone really wants from me is to pulverize the bejeezus out of Peter. I will try and sneak some plot in between when I can, so please bear with me and eventually, together, we will all reach some form of the angst everyone is waiting for.

I need to go crawl into a warm hole now. I had to run half a mile back from work in the most torrential downpour ever. It was the kind of rain where you just have to laugh hysterically as you wait for the walk sign at the intersection because it was literally, like, thundering so loud you had to plug your ears and raining so hard that you couldn't see, so it was a fun little end of the day adventure. The best news is, I won't have to try half as hard to wash out the spit-up in my clothes today. It doesn't get much classier than this.


	27. Chapter 27

**Lying Heart**

* * *

There is only one thought on Peter's mind after he hits the ground, and it's that he can't _breathe_. It's different from the near drowning from the first robot attack, different from getting the wind knocked out of him. He physically cannot command his lungs to suck in air—or maybe there just isn't any air left in this place.

When he smells the acidic, chemical smell of spandex burning, for the first time as Spiderman he truly considers his own demise. The pain is unimaginable and he can't even have the relief of being able to scream. He thinks of his Aunt May, thinks of breakfast this morning when he practically raced out the door with a piece of toast in his mouth—did he even say good-bye? He thinks of the look on Gwen's face this morning after she grabbed his camera, thinks of every rare moment he has seen her smile in the past few months, thinks of the way he barely acknowledged her on the way to this disaster.

Then he thinks of stupid things. He thinks of a full-time photography position at the Daily Bugle, thinks of college acceptances and buying textbooks and finding an apartment, thinks of the exhilaration of flying down the street on his board. All these possibilities, taken for granted before he has even had time to _consider_ them.

He doesn't know what he wants. He never has. But this—it can't end like this, so abruptly, so unfairly. He has faced too much to die like this, trapped like a rat.

The heat comes in excruciating waves. He is burning. He is beyond saving. He tries in vain one last time to breathe, but his eyes are already closed, and there is some small, sick comfort in knowing that it should only be a matter of time now before he either burns to death or the smoke inhalation knocks him unconscious.

He is so far gone that he doesn't even notice when the chunk of the ceiling lifts off of him, and barely registers when someone grabs him off of the floor. He thinks he must be delusional; he can't open his eyes without seeing smoke, so he figures he is imagining it until he feels the unmistakable click of one of the biocable devices detaching from his wrist.

When they reach the window and Peter has some ability to see again, he is sure he is having an elaborate delusion. The man from before is carrying him with one arm and pointing Peter's biocable device up through the smog with the other. Peter closes his eyes again—this is ridiculous, this isn't real, but then he feels a familiar weightlessness as they hit the sky and the edges of his consciousness become blurry and undefined again.

Somehow they make it to the ground. Peter is sure he still hasn't breathed, but he hears this horrible, throat-wrenching, choking noise and realizes it's coming from him.

"Calm down, Peter. I've got you. You're going to be fine."

He's heard these words before, and suddenly the memory bursts like a bullet from the back of his brain: he is four years old, he is learning to ride a bike, he has gone too far down a hill and lost control and he's sitting on the sidewalk nursing a knee that is covered in more blood than he's ever seen come out of him in his short life. He sits there bawling, but not for long. He remembers looking up through his tears to see his father, the man who seemed to tower over his own tiny, three foot tall existence, lean down to sit beside him.

_I've got you. You're going to be fine_.

This isn't a bike accident. This is catastrophic. Peter knows this because he can't move, he can't breathe, and worst of all, he can't really feel a thing.

But that doesn't stop the realization from upending his world even further.

* * *

The next hour is a blur of impossible happenings. At some point when he opens his eyes he's in the backseat of a car. He hears the engine start, then hears a pounding at the window, desperate and loud and enough to rouse him out of his miserable daze. He hears the man in the front seat arguing with someone outside; at some point he hears someone scream, "You're not taking him _anywhere_ without me!" and Peter thinks it sounds an awful lot like Gwen, but that can't be true, he left her twenty blocks away.

Eventually the backdoor to the car opens. Peter knows because the light from outside still hits his eyes, even though they are shut tight, grimacing against the pain that only seems to mount as time passes.

"Oh my god. Oh my _god_, Peter—"

"If that's all you're good for, you can get out of the car right now—"

"Would you _shut up?_" Gwen hisses.

Peter struggles to open his eyes, to make sure it's her and not a figment of his imagination. Before he manages to see her, though, he feels a hand grab his gloved one and there's no doubt in his mind that it's her.

"What can I do? What am I supposed to do?"

The man's voice is remarkably calm from the front seat. "There's a compartment in front of you. He needs oxygen."

He feels Gwen's hands on his neck, feels a slight tug on his mask and can't help the groan that escapes him. His eyes snap open. She looks so scared. He knows that she can't see him through the lenses and it's probably for the best, because his lungs are screaming and his throat is on fire and he is the last person to assure her at a moment like this.

"The mask—it's, the spandex, it melted and now it's—it's stuck to him," says Gwen, clearly having to make an effort to hold herself together.

"You have to take it off of him."

She tugs at it again, harder this time, and Peter cries out.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry, Peter—"

"You have to rip it off. He'll heal, faster than you think, but if you don't get it off now—"

"It's _hurting_ him!"

"If you don't get it off now," the man says again, "it's going to heal with the spandex still melted into him. He's better off. You said you were going to help, now if you can't handle something as simple as this—"

He hears her whisper the word "sorry" under her breath and that's how he knows to anticipate the agony a few seconds before it happens. Peter's scream from the backseat cuts off whatever the man was saying—it feels like all the skin on the back of his neck is tearing off and if he has to go through this with the rest of his suit, he thinks he will not be able to survive this, it's too much to bear. He is broken, unfixable, and the pain is so intense that for a fleeting, selfish moment he wishes they had just let him die up there so he could at least have some peace.

He must black out for a few moments, because when he is alert again he is coughing and spluttering with an oxygen mask on his face. He paws at it, trying to rip it off—it feels like it's forcing the air into his lungs, and the relief is so excruciating and unexpected that it feels like his lungs might burst.

"No, Peter," says Gwen, shoving it back on firmly.

"Back up. He still has his abilities, if he hits you he won't know what he's doing."

Peter lets his hands drop. He will let himself die before he ever hurts Gwen. He tries to look up at her, now that the mask is off and he knows she can see his face, but when she meets his eyes all he sees is her panic before she quickly looks away. He knows then that it must be as bad as he thinks, for Gwen to try to hide it from him.

Her voice is thick when she speaks again. "The rest of his suit …" she says.

"We're almost there, but try to get the melted parts off now."

Gwen takes a shuddering breath, as if to steel herself. "Peter," she says quietly, and he looks up at her to let her know that he's listening. "I'm going to roll you onto your side, okay?"

He shuts his eyes and nods, resigned.

"I'll be quick," she promises.

This time he anticipates it, so when she starts pulling at the fabric he grits his teeth, determined not to make a sound and scare her again. But the shock of it is so overwhelming that he can't help the half-scream that erupts from his throat—it doesn't matter, though, because he finally sees blackness at the edge of his vision, and has never been more thankful in his whole life to lose consciousness.

* * *

When he first starts to come to, the pain is still substantial, but thankfully nowhere near as bad as it was initially. He can't feel the familiar constriction of spandex on his skin and figures that they must have stripped him of it while he was out. He's thankful to have missed it.

"…understand," Gwen is saying. "How did you get up there to save him? How did you use his biocables?" There's a pause. "Who _are_ you?"

The man must not have answered her, because he sense her body shift impatiently, and feels her hand pull away from his. He hadn't realized she was holding his hand—he squeezes it now in acknowledgement.

"Peter," she says immediately. "Peter, are you awake?"

His eyes crack open blearily. It takes a long time for the world around him to take logical shape again. Once it does he sees he is in some sort of medical facility. He wonders if it's part of the basement where the man originally took him all those weeks ago.

The man.

Peter searches for him. He feels Gwen watching him carefully, and knows she needs him to reassure her in some way, but he can't. Not now, not now that the foundation of his entire life, of how he has defined himself, has changed forever.

The man has his back turned to Peter. "Take—" Peter coughs, not expecting his throat to be so raw. He gasps and chokes on air for a moment, then looks at Gwen gratefully when she hands him a glass of water. By now the man has turned around, and the posture of his body, the slight, guilty way his shoulders are hunched, is all the confirmation Peter needs.

He finishes the water. His voice is hoarse and it burns to talk, but he manages to croak as firmly as he can, "Take off the sunglasses."

The man doesn't move. "Peter—"

"Take them off!" Peter tries to yell, but all that comes out is empty, strangled air.

He finally obeys, slowly lifting a hand to the sunglasses and sliding them off. He doesn't look at Peter at first, but when he does, the eyes are unmistakable.

"No," Peter croaks. It isn't possible. This man—this man who looks nothing like his father, talks nothing like his father, his _dead_ father, can't be staring him in the face with his father's eyes. His head is reeling. He can feel the features of his face distorting in shock, can feel the beat of his heart pounding against his ribcage.

"Let me explain," says the man, taking a step toward him.

"_No!_" Peter yells at him, feeling his jaw lock with the effort. "You—you're dead. You're _dead_."

Gwen holds his hand tighter, looking alarmed. "Peter," she says, trying to sound calm, but he ignores her.

"What—what the _hell?_" Peter stammers, because it literally, actually makes _no sense_. It's too much for him to process. How does he look so different? His memories of his father are vague and unhelpful, but he has pictures, pictures that he spent his entire childhood memorizing, and this man looks nothing like the man Peter idolized for so many years. His chin, his nose, the angry way he carries himself. It's impossible, unthinkable.

To his father's credit, his eyes look genuinely remorseful, but he still stands rigid as a board and makes no effort to approach Peter. "I had to keep you safe—"

"Stop," Peter manages, "just stop." His entire body is quaking now, and he has all but forgotten the pain that only seconds ago seemed to overwhelm him. "You can't—you can't just—it's been _eleven years_. You've been alive this _whole time?_"

"I didn't have a choice," he says, an edge of desperation in his voice. "Peter—if I could make you understand how unbearable it's been, every day since the day I left you—"

"Where's—is my mother alive too?" Peter demands.

His father flinches as if Peter has slapped him. It takes him a moment to answer—not that it matters, because the pause is all Peter needs.

"No," he says. "No, I'm sorry."

Peter is gasping for air, and between the shock and the smoke inhalation he can't steady himself. The room is starting to sway. He knows he needs to calm down, it's the only way his lungs will stop burning, but he can't, he doesn't think he ever will.

"You did this to me," Peter manages in a strangled gasp. "_You_."

"I never meant for this to happen," he says, taking a step closer to Peter. "Believe me, Peter, this was never a fate I imagined for you. I thought I was doing what was best by you, that was always my intention, Peter, to keep you safe—"

"Oh, yeah?" Peter demands. "How long did it take you to figure it out? Was it after you kidnapped me, or after you tied me to a chair, or after you sucked all my abilities away?"

"At the time—I couldn't even fathom, I hadn't realized—"

"How _long_?" Peter tries to shout. "How long did it take for you to realize I'm your _son?_"

"Peter, please."

Sometime in the last few minutes Gwen has stepped out of the way, allowing his father to stand beside him. He looks weather-beaten and defeated, nothing like the man Peter remembered raising him, or even anything like the man Peter has come to warily understand in the past few weeks. There is a broken quality to him. Peter searches his eyes and there is no doubt that his father is sorry, that he is telling the truth, but that doesn't mean Peter can ever forgive him.

"You weren't even going to _tell _me," Peter accuses him lowly, because of all the wrongs his father committed, that is the one that cuts the deepest. "_Were_ you?"

"You're hurt. You're tired. I want to explain all of this to you, Peter, and I will in due time, but right now," he says, putting a hand on Peter's shoulder, "right now you need to—"

"Don't touch me," Peter hisses, pulling his shoulder away. The resulting pain sweeps in an unexpected, terrible wave but he doesn't so much as cringe. The man—his father—almost looks devastated. It isn't enough to deter Peter. "Don't you _ever_ come near me again."

* * *

Stressful day at work today, so I'm recuperating the only way a mature, well-adjusted young woman can: by buying myself cake mix and baking a giant cake I intend to share with absolutely nobody. Not even Andrew Garfield, or his ridiculously sculpted biceps. Bon appetit, bitches.

Also, a thousand million times over, thanks for the reviews. It makes me feel a lot better to see that there are other people in the universe every bit as unhealthily obsessed with this fandom as I am, and I really appreciate the suggestions and comments. I think the story will be ending sometime in the next ten to chapters, depending on how I end up sequencing the things that need to happen, so as I approach the close I can't say enough how much it has meant to me that you guys take the time to let me know what you're all thinking.

I was lying before. If Andrew Garfield showed up at my door asking for cake right now, I'd let him have some-he might have to eat it off his shoes since I most likely would drop it in complete and utter terror, but I'd let him have some.


	28. Chapter 28

**Lying Heart**

* * *

What happens next is maddening. His father and Gwen exchange some sort of look, as if there is some unspoken understanding between them, and as Peter watches incredulously Gwen nods and his father leaves the room.

When he turns to look at her, her face is ashen, but eerily calm. He takes a breath and feels his face relax out of its scowl. They're alone now. But he can't shake this surreal feeling that he has just imagined everything, that the smoke inhalation has caused him to lose his mind, because that is a lot more plausible than the evidence that is otherwise indicating that his entire _life_ has been a lie.

He shuts his eyes and tries to breathe evenly.

"Peter."

He shakes his head. Just by the tone of her voice he can tell she is about to try to make him see reason, try to see his father's side of the story, but Peter isn't ready for that yet.

"Hey," she says, grabbing his hand and squeezing it.

He can't open his eyes. He doesn't want her to look at him, not after she has seen him this way, unrepentant and angry. He's afraid it isn't over. He's afraid he might just yell at her, too. But when the squeeze of her hand against his doesn't let up, he knows there's no point in trying to hide from her any longer.

Her expression is soft and understanding and everything he isn't. He stiffens uncomfortably under her gaze—he doesn't deserve this from her, doesn't want to accept this from her, doesn't want to believe that someone is capable of caring for him at his most despicable. His own father wouldn't stick around after his outburst, so why is it that Gwen Stacy seems capable of a forgiveness that seems to have no limits?

"He left again," Peter says.

Gwen stares at the door and says, "I don't think he went too far."

"He better not come back."

"You don't mean that," says Gwen, and Peter is about to cut her off and say that he _does_ mean it, that just the _sight_ of that man makes his blood boil with years of suppressed feelings of abandonment and confusion and grief, but he thinks better of it—these are things that Gwen will justifiably never agree with, as she will, without a doubt, never see her father again.

It's a bizarre thing to feel guilty for. He has always felt responsible for Captain Stacy's death, responsible enough for it that he has, to the best of his ability, kept his unbearable promise to the man, but now that Peter's own father has risen from the dead, Peter feels even worse than before. It feels as if he and Gwen have traded places, as if he stole a father from her.

He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to see his father, not like this, not now that he knows what the man is truly capable of and how heartlessly he ignored Peter for all this time.

"I have to call Aunt May," he says.

Gwen nods, producing her cell phone from her purse. "I called her a few hours ago," she admits, "but she'll probably want to hear from you."

Peter gawks at her, not sure whether to be embarrassed or impressed. As the two compete for his attention, he asks, "How did you—? I didn't know you had a number to reach her on."

"She gave it to me that day I came down to Queens looking for you. When you were, well."

"Locked up and drugged in a basement for four days," Peter supplies. "By a guy who altered my DNA before I started first grade."

"That," Gwen confirms. She shifts in her seat, leaning in closer to him. At first Peter can't help but tense, but her intentions are clearly anything but romantic. "I'm not saying your father was right about—well, about anything that has happened in the last few—"

"I don't want to talk about this," Peter says.

"You can't ignore it," says Gwen firmly. "I know you're angry, Peter, of course you're angry, who wouldn't be? But maybe—maybe you need to just take some time, and then talk to him, let him explain."

"What else is left to explain?" Peter says, staring up at the ceiling and trying his hardest not to let his face contort with anger again.

He doesn't like this feeling, sitting here in this chair in the same basement, a different kind of trapped but trapped nonetheless. He doesn't want Gwen to be his voice of reason—Gwen is the temptation, the warning sign, the line he isn't supposed to cross, and all the previous voices of reason have told him to stay away from her. It feels like there is no order left in his universe. More than anything he wants to leave here, wants to sulk in his room and just be _alone_, but he is in no condition to be strolling out into the streets of New York just now.

"Give him a chance," says Gwen.

Peter doesn't answer her.

"I'm not saying it has to be today, but Peter, this is … if you don't talk to him, you're going to regret it."

The words linger in the air for a moment. Peter understands her point, can even acknowledge that she's probably right, but the hurt is so fresh and raw that he can't just give in to the idea. There is a part of him that is certain the instant he shows any sign of vulnerability, the instant he tries to make any progress toward forgiveness, his father will just leave again. He did it easily once—did it time and time again, it seems, because eleven years is a conscious, controlled kind of abandonment. And even once he came back into Peter's life it seemed that his actual interest in Peter and his life was limited at best, so limited that he didn't even bother to tell Peter he was his son.

Maybe he is ashamed of Peter. Maybe he doesn't want a son so reckless, so stupid.

No. Peter grits his teeth angrily. He's not going to fret over that man's approval, not for one more second of his life.

Instead he turns to Gwen. "Thank you," he says. "For … I mean, back there, everything you did, it couldn't have been easy."

Her smile looks exhausted, but somewhat proud. "Call your aunt," she reminds him.

He nods and starts dialing. The conversation is brief—Peter is grateful to Gwen beyond words that Aunt May doesn't seem as high-strung and panicked as she usually does, so whatever Gwen said to her must have settled her down in a way Peter never could himself. He tells her he doesn't know when he'll be home, but that he's alright, that he's with Gwen. Aunt May makes a choice comment that he blushes at but otherwise ignores. He figures she isn't aware of the full extent of his injuries or she wouldn't be making jokes, another troublesome conversation he is happy to avoid.

"I don't know what you said to her," he says to Gwen after he hangs up, "but thanks."

She sighs. "I'd say anytime, but I'd like to hope I won't have to make a call like that again."

Peter hopes so, too. Not because he isn't going to be injured again anytime soon, but because he doesn't want Gwen to be anywhere near him when he does.

"What were you even _doing_ there?" asks Peter. "The fire—it was at least twenty blocks away, you must have been running—"

"I was," she admits.

"That's—that's so _stupid_," Peter splutters. "You shouldn't have been there, that's—that's the whole point of us being like _this_, the whole point of us staying away from each other, is to keep you out of all this insanity, and then you go _running _straight for it—"

"Peter, it was just an apartment fire," Gwen cuts him off. "I had your camera and thought I might get a few shots. It was perfectly safe—"

"Until it _isn't_," Peter insists. "It's always perfectly safe until it _isn't_."

"It was perfectly safe," Gwen asserts, "and besides, even if it wasn't, I'm free to do whatever I want, regardless of some ridiculous promise you made my father."

"_Ridiculous?_" Peter exclaims, his voice raised to a level he has never used with her before. Her eyes widen and he instantly feels ashamed of himself. He was going to say something else, he wasn't finished, not by a long shot, but there is no point in having this conversation now. He is weak, he is irritable, he is only going to say something he regrets later.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "You're right. I can't tell you what to do."

Gwen accepts his apology and says, "What happened up there, anyway?"

For the first time since he regained consciousness, Peter remembers in full force what he saw up in that apartment. His heart nearly flies into his throat. "_Shit._"

"What?" Gwen asks, alarmed.

"I—I forgot, I—I saw—_shit_." Peter thinks for a moment. There is a strong possibility he imagined it, but he is sure that he wasn't in the building long enough at that point to be seeing such an elaborate delusion. He turns to Gwen and the words spill out of him near incoherently.

"The robot—the arm, I saw it, I saw one of the arms, it was probably the second robot, its _arm_—"

"What are you talking about? Where did you see one of the robot's arms?" Gwen asks slowly, trying to get him to focus.

"In the apartment!" Peter bursts. "In the apartment, before that piece of the ceiling came down, I swear to God, Gwen, I swear to God—"

"Okay," says Gwen, "okay, I believe you, but you're sure it was the arm of one of _the_ robots you encountered?"

He nods grimly. His head feels so heavy, and he feels the exhaustion of the vigorous healing process creeping into his bones, but he has to fight it. He has, however unintentionally, stumbled onto something huge, the first breakthrough in this mystery creator of the robots since they first started tearing apart the streets of the city.

"It explains the explosions. It wasn't an ordinary fire, there were blasts that almost seemed timed, as if somebody had planned it that way," says Peter, and the more he talks, the stupider he feels. "Whoever is making them—he said—my father, he said that their attention has shifted. That they know about the formula, that they know it's a part of me."

He looks up at Gwen, whose eyebrows are furrowed intently, trying to keep up with him.

"It was a trap," says Peter, "don't you see?" He pauses, considering it further. "They weren't going to let me die. Whoever it was. They were going to come find me, I'm sure of it."

"Peter," says Gwen warily.

"You have to go get him," Peter says, motioning toward the door where his father exited. "He said—he said they didn't know he was back, but now whoever it was—they'll know he isn't dead. They're going to come after him, too. The _formula_—"

Peter stops short. The formula. He isn't the only one with these alterations embedded into his genetic code, this he finally understands. His father could never have smashed through a window on the twentieth floor of a building, lifted a burning chunk of wood off of him and swung them down on a biocable. It simply isn't possible.

Unless his father altered his own DNA all those years ago.

"The formula," Peter says, almost mumbling to himself. "They don't need it if they can get a hold of either one of us."

He's not making much sense, he knows because of the concerned way Gwen is staring, as if she is trying very hard not to question him.

"You have to go get him, please," Peter says again, so she'll know he means it.

She gets up and heads toward the door. Peter waits, sitting in the dimly lit room alone, listening to his heart throb. Thirty seconds pass and by then Peter knows his father is long gone; he isn't even surprised when Gwen walks in pursing her lips another minute later.

"He's gone, isn't he?"

Gwen nods.

"Oh." It seems disproportionately silly to be disappointed after everything else his father has put him through, but he is.

"I'm sure he just—"

The backs of Peter's eyes are burning. "No, no. I told him to leave." It is childish of him to believe that his father would stay anyway, but Peter has come to expect that kind of faith from the people he cares about. Even at his worst, Gwen and Aunt May have never left his side. Even Uncle Ben, in a way, never truly left Peter, because his voice seems to resonate in Peter's consciousness everywhere he goes.

Peter has been well-loved in his life, with or without this man who was never there when Peter needed him most. He will not let this upset him.

He doesn't realize his eyes are shutting until Gwen says, "I'll tell him when he comes back," and Peter jerks out of his semi-consciousness.

"He won't. Come back, I mean," says Peter wearily.

"He's your father, Peter," Gwen says, and even though he is trying very hard to focus on what she is saying, he feels her voice getting further away. "He'll be back."

She's still holding his hand as he nods off, and even though he wants to tell her that she is wrong, that this man left him easily once and can easily do it again, he finds it hard to be complaining about anyone leaving him when she is right here and she is all he has ever really needed.

* * *

Thanks for all the reviews, guys, I'm glad the last chapter was a success! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to breaking all my fingers attempting to make bar chords on the guitar. Anybody out there who plays guitar have bar chord advice for someone with the most pathetic left pointer finger in the universe? It's like. Spiderman can crawl up a building, and I can't press my finger down hard enough to make music with it. I'm starting to feel incompetent.

THE GOOD NEWS is, I made it into round one of the Texaco Country Showdown ... which should be interesting. I can't really play guitar, it's just, people at my gigs are either trying really hard to ignore me (coffeehouses) or they're suuuuper drunk and think anyone is the shit (bars!).

Dignity. I've got lots of it.


	29. Chapter 29

**Lying Heart**

* * *

"Peter."

"Hm?"

Aunt May looks down at his breakfast pointedly. He follows her gaze all the way down to the fork in his hand, which he has absent-mindedly been using to shovel cereal in his mouth for the last five minutes.

"Oh," he says, holding it up and looking at it.

Aunt May finishes pouring hot water out of the kettle and says, "Something's been on your mind, Peter. You seem distracted."

Peter sets the fork back down. It's been three days since the fire, three days since the last time he saw his father and three days since he last talked to Gwen. When he woke up she was gone, but had left a note explaining it was getting late and her mother needed her to watch her brothers while her conference ran late. He missed school on Friday and then the next few days he spent scouring the streets of New York, not just for petty crimes but for answers.

Unsurprisingly, he found none. He isn't sure what he expected to find, but he returned to the apartment building where he had seen the arm, but when he carefully trekked through the guarded off ruins of the apartment, he found nothing. While this served to confirm that whoever this was knew how to cover their tracks, it did little else to help Peter.

He even returned to the basement twice. He considered leaving notes, although he eventually thought against it, just in case. But even knowing that he tried, he feels uneasy. Regardless of his issues with his father, the fact of the matter is that they are both in danger, and he feels responsible knowing that the man essentially sold himself out to save Peter.

But if Peter can't find him to warn him, there's nothing else he can do but hope that his father is intelligent enough to realize it on his own.

"Peter," says Aunt May, tugging him out of his long chain of thoughts.

"Yeah?"

She raises her eyebrows at him. He tries to backtrack to where their conversation left off, and it takes him a few moments to remember and say, "I guess I have a lot of schoolwork."

"The semester only just started."

"And the internship," Peter says defensively.

"The internship you haven't been to once since your first day?" Aunt May asks innocently.

Peter stares back down at his cereal so she won't see him rolling his eyes. He's tired, but not bone-tired, just tired enough to feel unreasonably irritated by someone nagging him at six thirty in the morning. Trying to keep Aunt May from knowing too much about his alter-ego's life sometimes feels like a full-time job by itself. He cringes, thinking of the day she admitted that she'd known all along.

He hasn't thought of that day in awhile now, with everything that has happened, but now something gives him pause.

"If something's bothering you …" says Aunt May. "Well, you know you can always talk to me."

Peter looks up at her, careful to watch her expression as he asks this. "That note that I was holding the other day when I came back," he says. "You looked at it for a really long time."

Her eyes dart over to him, just for a fleeting moment, but then she carefully focuses on finding her crossword and says, "What note?"

"The note that I—" He stops short. She knows _exactly_ what note.

She seems to realize this was the wrong maneuver to have used on Peter, he can tell by the way she keeps rapidly clicking her pen against the table and trying too hard to look busy. He stares at her incredulously, thinking of the way she held that note, the way she seemed to scour every word of it.

Of course she would recognize his father's handwriting. It occurs to Peter now that she most likely recognized it right away.

As the realization dawns on him, he isn't quite sure how to feel. On one hand Aunt May has never been a fan of secrets, and the idea that she would be hypocritical enough to keep such a monumental piece of information away from him is maddening. On the other hand, she probably didn't believe it herself—he can understand why she wouldn't want to confuse or upset Peter by mentioning it.

Only then does a hurtful question emerge, one that is impossible to ignore—is it possible that his aunt knew that his father was alive the whole time? Her astonishment at the note might not have been for the fact that someone's handwriting resembled his father's, or at the idea that his father was still alive, but instead astonishment for the idea that Peter's father would bother to resurface after all these years. Peter hates that he is thinking this way, that he would feel any suspicion for the woman he considers his mother, but he can't help the lingering doubt in his mind that there is something not quite right about the way s refuses to look at him now.

"I have to go to school," says Peter, grabbing his bowl and walking to the sink with his head ducked down.

As he's slinging his backpack onto his shoulders, Aunt May touches his arm. Peter looks up in surprise. Her eyes have never been so unreadable.

"I worry about you, Peter."

He shrugs his arm away from her, looking away so he doesn't have to see her reaction. "I'm careful," he mumbles, not for the first time. He walks to the door. The words seem to slither unconsciously off his tongue when he turns just slightly and says, with just a hint of uncertainty, "And so are you."

* * *

Peter is so far removed from the rest of the world that he barely notices when Fisher sits down next to him and loudly drops his skateboard down on the tile floors. The teacher shoots them a dirty look, her gaze shifting between the two of them, trying to decide who was the culprit. Fisher raises a hand in apology.

"Hey, man," says Fisher, "I'm sorry I bailed on boarding last week."

Peter frowns, trying not to betray his confusion, but the truth is he has no idea what Fisher is talking about. He tries to think back to the one other lab they've had so far this semester, and the choppy details come back to him a little too slowly: something about boarding, a place in Brooklyn they were supposed to meet, sometime in the afternoon—he's embarrassed to say he completely let it slip his mind, and he can't remember why.

Peter hasn't remembered fast enough, though, because Fisher says, "There was this apartment complex fire, I don't know if you heard about it, but my dad's apartment totally got destroyed."

"The fire—" That would explain why Peter forgot. "The fire downtown?" he asks.

"Yeah," says Fisher, "so you heard about it."

Peter nods. "You said you lived in Brooklyn, I thought."

"Yeah, that's where my mom lives, my parents are separated."

"The apartment was totally destroyed?" Peter asks.

"Yeah," says Fisher, looking glum. "Sucks. I had some stuff in there, my old laptop, a bunch of winter clothes, movies and stuff like that. I didn't really think anything of it when I heard there was a fire, but apparently there were some sort of explosive substances involved, which is why the apartment got fried."

"That sucks," says Peter, digesting the situation. He wants to pry and see if Fisher knows anything more than he does, but he can't think of the right question to ask without seeming too interested.

"Lucky my dad wasn't there."

"Yeah," says Peter, his thoughts darting to his own father before he can stop himself. He tries to focus. "What floor was your—"

The teacher starts talking, loudly and definitively, letting the class know that the time for chitchat is over. Peter retreats back into his thoughts, mulling over everything that has happened in the past week from his father's reappearance, to his ill-defined friendship with Gwen, to Aunt May's suspicious behavior. By the time the bell rings and the class disperses, Peter forgets to ask Fisher anything about the fire.

* * *

On the walk to Gwen's place she pesters him relentlessly. "I haven't seen you all weekend," she starts as soon as they hit the street and the rest of the school can't hear them. "What have you been doing? Did you find anything out? Have you heard from your—"

"No." Peter shakes his head just once.

"You haven't tried to—"

"If he doesn't want to talk to me, that's his problem," says Peter, reluctant to admit that he has, in fact, tried several times to get in touch with the father who apparently wants nothing to do with him.

They walk another few steps and Gwen stops and says, "Look, Peter, I know you're upset, but the longer your father goes without knowing—"

"I tried, don't you think I tried?" Peter says, trying not to lose his patience. He doesn't want to talk about this, it feels like someone is burning a hole into his chest whenever he thinks about it. It's humiliating to think about, how worthless he must be in the eyes of this man who has left him again and again, who will even leave at the cost of figuring out whatever is happening with these robots.

He takes a breath, tries not to sound so on edge. "I won't pretend to know what he's up to, but I've tried to find him and he's just—he's gone. Just like the last time."

She doesn't bring it up again. They make it to the front of her apartment building, and Peter smirks a little bit at the doorman as he follows Gwen inside. They're alone once they reach the apartment. Gwen doesn't seem to be expecting this, and so instead of heading to her bedroom she pulls out her laptop and they sit in the living room, as if this makes the aloneness somehow less intimate, knowing that they are out in the open if her brothers burst through the front door.

She hooks Peter's camera up to her laptop so they can peruse the shots.

"These are awful," she says, snickering.

Peter can't help but agree. It isn't really her fault. She can't help that she doesn't have mutated abilities to crawl up a wall to get a good angle on a shot.

He sees a better shot and stops her. "I can probably crop this one and mess with it in photoshop."

She copies and pastes it into another file and continues going through the photos. The camera is still fairly new, so what Peter doesn't realize is that once Gwen scrolls through all the photos they took the other day, it will lead straight into the first photos that he ever took on the camera, the ones he hasn't deleted yet.

She has probably scrolled through five or six of the earlier photos on the camera before he grabs it from her, but it's too late: she has found one of the shots he took of her, this one with her face partially obscured by her locker door. It's the kind of picture he is objectively proud of. She looks like a quiet, overlooked character in a story seeking a moment of solitude in a sea of people, as if there is a little corner of the world in her locker where she has found some peace. For a moment he forgets to be embarrassed, admiring the curves of her half-visible cheek, of her lowered eyelid, of the back of her neck, all subtly speaking to the grief she has endured in the last few months.

Then he looks up guiltily, his whole face burning.

"I—it's just, that I, I mean, I was going to tell you I took the shot, but—the bell rang, and I didn't."

She's sitting with her knees together, her hands wrung together and very still in her lap. He can tell she's going to ask him something. He thinks she will ask why he took the shot, or if he does this often, or any number of things a girl who just found secret pictures of herself on a boy's camera would ask, but instead she looks at him and says, "You really liked me back then, didn't you?"

* * *

I have eaten approximately seventy homegrown grape tomatoes today. My coworker grows em at home and brought me a HUGE Ziploc bag full of them today. You are officially reading a story written by a tomato. Also, I'm going to go up to a giant mountain now and eat peaches. Look at me, pretending to be healthy.

Heads up: Entertainment Tonight has this ADORABLE interview with Andrew Garfield from the Lions for Lambs premiere back in 2007 online right now. I recommend everyone watch it. Then plug your ears and say LALALALALA when they cut to modern Andrew singing Emma Stone's praises with googly eyes and saying "she can do anything" (well OBVIOUSLY, or she wouldn't be dating the hottest guy alive).


	30. Chapter 30

**Lying Heart**

* * *

In this moment Gwen looks so vulnerable and exposed, letting the question linger in the air between them, waiting for an answer as if she knows she won't get one. A few moments pass, with Peter looking at her and feeling rather stricken by the question, and Gwen finally letting out a breath as if she's been holding it for a long time. She juts out her lip slightly, in some acknowledgement that the question was out of line, and turns her head back to the computer screen.

"I didn't take that a long time ago, I took that last month," says Peter. "If that's—I mean, it wasn't a 'back then,' it was December."

She doesn't say anything for a long time, and Peter wonders if he has said the wrong thing—if in the moment of her vulnerability he has somehow managed to further upset her. He stands there uncomfortably, the camera still in his hands, trying desperately to think of anything he can say to fix it.

Gwen speaks first. "I broke up with Richard."

"What?"

She doesn't say it again, knowing full well that he heard. "A few weeks ago, actually."

Peter feels the blood draining out of his brain with a selfish kind of relief. A sharp breath somewhere between a sigh and a laugh escapes him. "I—I'm sorry?"

She shrugs.

He isn't sure if she wants him to ask what happened, isn't sure if she wants to talk about it at all. He thinks that if they were just friends, the way that they claimed to be, of course he would ask for the details, ask if she was alright, ask how she was feeling about it. But they aren't just friends, which is something he really has to face in moments like this, when he is standing he torn about what he's allowed to say next.

"After that thing on New Year's," she says, pursing her lips. "Well."

Peter swallows. "I pissed him off, Gwen," he admits. "I mean, he came around telling me to back off, and I—I might have—it's not like he just punched me for the hell of it," he stammers, both feeling incredibly guilty for potentially causing the breakup and wrecking Gwen's chances at being happy and safe and away from the mess Spiderman has caused, and incredibly stupid for defending Richard.

"It wasn't just that," she says, her eyes still trained on the computer, flitting through the pictures they took the other day. He can tell she isn't really looking at them.

Peter isn't sure why he asks, but when he sits back down on the couch, careful to keep a healthy distance between the two of them, he says, "Then what was it?"

She looks up at him as if the question surprises her. She takes a breath as if she means to answer it right away, then seems to backtrack, to change her mind. Finally what comes out is a simple, "I didn't love him."

The words seem to suck all the air of the room, as if they are in a vacuum. Peter can almost feel the pressure of it ringing in his ears. There are a thousand hidden meanings between the words _I didn't love him_, but the one that is the loudest, the one that he both hopes for and hates, is the idea that she can't love Richard because she loves him.

"That's—well." The instant Peter opens his mouth he wonders what possessed him to do it, when he has nothing at all helpful or relevant to say. "And it's all been—good?"

His awkwardness has at least earned him a small smile. "Yeah," she says, nodding. "I'd feel worse about it. But he's already been hitting on my friend MJ, like, big time, so. He'll be fine."

They fall into an uneasy silence. Peter almost wishes one of her brothers would fly through the door and interrupt them and give Peter an excuse to leave, because he can sense the next few minutes are crucial ones—the kind that always end disastrously for him. He clears his throat and looks back at the computer.

"That one's decent," he says, pointing to a picture of what appears to be half of his face and a part of his shoulder.

"No, it's not." Gwen turns to him. "Can we talk? Is it okay if we talk?"

"We are talking."

She furrows her eyebrows in frustration. "I mean, talk, Peter."

His tongue feels thick. "Okay."

Ironically, almost a full thirty seconds of silence follows their agreement to talk. Although Peter has a fairly good idea of what this conversation is about, he doesn't want to be the one who initiates it, just in case he is wrong. Gwen's jaw is set, her lips a tight line and her eyes focused very deliberately on a couch cushion, as if she is either suddenly afraid to speak, or can't decide how to say it.

"If this—if this whole thing hadn't happened," she says finally. "You know. Spiderman, and my dad, and everything else."

She pauses, and looks up at him to make sure he is following her. He nods slowly.

"Would you still—would you have even wanted to be with me?"

Peter has to divert his gaze somewhere else because he doesn't want to see her eyes, which he knows are wide and hopeful and waiting. He closes his own eyes for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say, the right kind of half-truth. "Gwen," he starts.

"It's just hypothetical. I'm just asking."

No, she isn't, and they both know it. But Peter thinks of that night, New Year's Eve, when Gwen was sobbing in his arms. He thinks of how from the very start of this promise he made, all it has done is hurt her—he can still hear her words echoing as if they are stuck in the confines of his skull for eternity: _You ruin me_.

It's not fair to her. It never has been. While Peter can handle his own misery over the situation, he has never quite come to terms with the misery he knows he is causing her by constantly pulling away. He doesn't want to be the reason for her pain anymore, even if it means he has to bear the burden of breaking his promise.

He has known this moment was inevitable, has known it since that night he held her in Flash's apartment, so when he finally commits to it, it isn't as nearly difficult to express as he thought it would be.

"Of course," he finally says, so quietly that he thinks she might not hear him. "Of course I would. That's … you shouldn't have to ask me that."

It doesn't seem to make her feel any better. She accepts his answer with a quiet posture that doesn't suit her very well, doesn't seem like the Gwen he knows at all. She absent-mindedly traces the keyboard of the laptop and he sees her nails are all bitten down to the skins of her fingers. He watches them, wondering what other parts of her have changed, what he hasn't let himself notice in the past few months of avoiding her. He wonders if he has changed, too. He wonders if either of them could ever be the same people they were when they first met.

When she looks up at him it is clear that she is wondering something similar, and that one look from her is all Peter needs to know the irrevocable truth about the two of them—it doesn't matter what they endure, or how it changes them, because there is something deep within him that stirs just at the thought of her and he knows he will never feel this way about another person for as long as he lives. He doesn't want to. He can't believe that something this immense, this overwhelming, could ever happen more than once in a lifetime.

"I just wish …"

She has no intention of finishing the sentence. Peter just sits there and lets the words dangle for a moment.

"I know."

* * *

He leaves Gwen's apartment around four-thirty. They never really finish talking, which is fine, because Peter knows what will happen if they ever finish that talk, and he doesn't know how ready he is to let himself love her. It almost feels as if he takes this slowly, eases himself into breaking this promise a little bit at a time, it will somehow make it less of an unforgivable act.

When he thinks about it, though, it is probably much worse that he is so aware and conscious every step of the way, so that he really can't blame the circumstances or the hormones or anybody but himself.

This time he remembers to meet Fisher to go skating, and it turns out there's a construction site that's been slightly abandoned due to recent snow in the city that has a bunch of random, large objects strewn around in a manner just perfect for aimless teenage boys with skateboards.

"So why was that Richard kid beating up on you, anyway?" asks Fisher, slightly out of breath on top of a half-built structure they just climbed.

"Huh? Oh. You mean New Year's." Peter watches his feet dangle off the ledge and says, "Mostly because he was drunk."

"But also for that girl, right?"

Peter doesn't like anyone referring to her as 'that girl,' so he says, "Gwen, yeah."

"She seemed pretty pissed."

"Yeah, well."

"You got a thing for her or something?"

Peter looks at him somewhat incredulously. Sure, it's been awhile since he's had a friend outside of Gwen and Aunt May, but this feels oddly like an interrogation more than a casual question.

"She's cute," he says noncommittally. He knows that if he flat out denies it he'll look like an idiot, but really, Peter doesn't know this guy well enough to even scratch the surface on his relationship with Gwen.

Fisher raises his eyebrows. "That's an understatement."

For the first time since Peter met him he feels a genuine pang of dislike for Fisher. He grits his teeth to stop himself from saying anything he'll regret, but he has the distinct impression now that Fisher is trying to goad him in some way. Or maybe this whole thing with Gwen and Richard has just set him so on edge that he considers anyone a threat. He tells himself to let it slide, to stop being so jumpy. This is just normal interaction between friends. Of course it's foreign to him, he spends most of his spare time hanging out in a kitchen with a woman in her sixties who still thinks meatloaf is an acceptable dinner option.

"She single?" Fisher asks, smirking slightly.

Peter clears his throat. "Not sure. You should, uh. Ask her."

He probably couldn't shove his foot further in his mouth if he tried. He stares down at the ground, a good twenty feet below them. He is about to heave a weary sigh and say it's getting dark and he should go home, but just then Fisher unexpectedly startles, veering his whole body around and smashing into Peter with so much force that Peter goes flying off the railing.

He can't help it—his first instinct is to throw his hands out and catch himself. His fingers only latch onto the wood for a fraction of a second before he remembers, and ruefully lets himself continue to fall.

Most of the impact hits his left shoulder and he cringes, letting himself lay on the ground for a moment.

"The _hell_, man?" Peter calls up.

"Shit—shit, I'm so sorry," Fisher calls back down. "I thought I saw—I don't know, man, I thought I saw a bee coming at me and I just flipped."

Peter considers the complete and total implausibility of this. What seventeen-year-old boy who frequently shreds his knees on half pipes is scared of a bee? Also, what would a _bee_ be doing buzzing around Brooklyn in the middle of one of the coldest Januarys the city has ever seen?

"Are you okay? Shit, Parker."

He hoists himself up. "Yeah," he says, taking longer to stand than he really needs. He sincerely doubts that Fisher noticed that hiccup where Peter's fall nearly stalled, but just in case he did he needs to make this look as convincing as possible.

"I'm coming down," says Fisher, grabbing his board and climbing down the same way they climbed up.

Peter rolls his shoulder. He's fine, really, but it doesn't make him any less annoyed. What if he didn't have these crazy reflexes and healing abilities? What the hell was Fisher thinking was going to happen when he went berserk twenty feet in the air?

"I'm really sorry," Fisher says again once he's closer to Peter.

Peter can't quite help the scowl on his face. "It's fine, it was an accident," he says.

"Your shoulder?"

"Fine," says Peter. Then he sets his board on the ground with a crash and stops it with his foot. "Look, man, it was nice hanging out and all, but I have to get home. It's my turn to make dinner."

Fisher nods. "See you around."

His shoulder still twinges as he heads off into the dusk. On the subway ride home he can't help his mounting annoyance at Fisher, not only for potentially shoving him to his demise, but for his comments about Gwen. Fisher might have had his back that night of New Year's Eve, but that doesn't mean Peter owes him anything. He won't be meeting Fisher out in Brooklyn again.

* * *

Friday, man. Friday. Every week I think it's just never gonna happen, and then. I just. I just. _Friday_, man. It's _FRIDAY. _I wish I were a better person, but the idea of 48 hours of not watching other people's children is, like, the best thing since sliced bread right now.

Also, I'm five or six chapters ahead of everyone else on the writing bits, which is fun because I totally get to predict the days of the week people are going to hate me for something, and next week ... well.

_Friday_. God bless Spiderman. God bless us all.


	31. Chapter 31

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Peter rehearses what he's going to say to Gwen all morning, trying to think of something casual and maybe funny but above all not forced because he doesn't want her to think that he still feels unsure and awkward after their discussion the day before, even though he does. By the time he gets to school he has a few planned: a simple _Hey, Gwen_ can't go wrong, and neither can a _So, how about that reading last night?_, even though Peter doesn't know if there was assigned reading, because he certainly didn't do it.

He forces himself to stop thinking about it. He will never be able to plan being normal in advance—this much he has learned about himself in his less-than-slick seventeen years. Besides, maybe she'll just say hi first, or do that little wave of hers, and the problem will be gone altogether.

Gwen isn't in class that day.

Peter scowls all through cinematography. Gwen _never_ misses class. He checks his phone to see if she texted him, maybe with an excuse about how she needs the homework or just to flat out tell him she's absent, but there's nothing in his inbox.

He pulls out his phone to call her as soon as class is over, and it leads straight to her voicemail. He is so distracted wondering where she is that he doesn't even notice that he has let her voicemail run all the way to the _beep_, and that so far he has left a message with at least five seconds of dead air.

"Hey," he finally says, "you're not here today." He finds his locker and leans his head against it, trying to think of something more concrete to say so it sounds like he meant to leave a voicemail. "Text me or something," he decides on lamely.

By the time Peter finishes stashing his books away, most of the hall has cleared of other students and he knows he must be late to class, which is clear on the other side of the building. He throws his backpack over his shoulder, intending to pick up the pace.

"Hey, Parker."

Peter can't decide whether or not to turn around. If he keeps on walking he'll only look absurd—there is no pretending he didn't hear Richard, not with the hallways so quiet and his voice so commanding and clear. But if he does turn around he will have to face Richard, have to talk to him, and at a time when his anxiety over Gwen's absence is inexplicably growing by the hour, a chat with her ex-boyfriend is the last thing he needs.

He settles on just stopping mid-step. "Yeah?" he says without facing Richard.

Richard half-jogs to catch up with him. Peter doesn't even bother bracing himself; he knows Richard would never strike him in a school hallway, or probably anywhere else, if he hadn't been so drunk and angry that night. He reaches Peter's line of sight, forcing Peter to look at him, and not for the first time Peter can imagine him as the neat little puzzle piece that finalizes the pretty picture that could be Gwen's life: him in his pressed khakis, her in a simple but alluring dress, posed in front of some city suburb where he works a job in business and she works in a lab and they have intelligent, well-bred babies who are heirs to their grandparents' small fortunes and all learn to play the violin before age five.

Peter thought he would never stop hating Richard for everything he could offer Gwen, everything that Peter never could, but now that he is out of the picture it surprises Peter how easily that hatred dissipates. He has already forgiven Richard before he even opens his mouth to apologize.

"Hey," says Richard. "I just wanted to say—I'm not going to lie, I can't remember much about New Year's, but for everything I did, I really am sorry."

Peter nods. It feels like all he ever does these days is apologize or hear apologies. "It's really okay."

Richard smiles bitterly. "I beat the shit out of you, man."

Peter clears his throat. "I mean—not _really_," he says self-consciously, because he likes to think he'd be able to hold his own in a fight even without these abilities.

"I don't know what made me … I mean, I know I said some things to you, but I didn't really mean to, I wasn't going to _actually_ beat you up. I just—I was drunk, it was stupid, I'd take it back if I could."

"Yeah. Well."

"So," Richard says. "I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore. With Gwen and all."

Peter looks away from Richard, his feet shuffling uncomfortably. "I heard."

"I'm not surprised," says Richard.

"It's—not like that," says Peter unnecessarily.

Richard just shakes his head, indicating that he doesn't want to hear anymore, which saves Peter a few painful seconds of trying to recover by elaborating on the situation. The two boys stand there in the hallway for a moment, listening to the bell ring, to the sounds of the last few stragglers shutting the doors to the classrooms.

"You're lucky," Richard says, staring down at his immaculate shoes. He looks up only briefly, just long enough to say, "Be good to her."

Peter nods and says, "I will."

* * *

On the way to the Daily Bugle's offices he swings by Gwen's apartment. Her mother answers the door and says of course Gwen isn't home, and didn't she tell him she was going to be spending the day leading a conference for international interns at OsCorp at a hotel in the city? Peter tells her no, Gwen didn't tell him that, and as he walks away, the weirder it sounds. He is about to turn to leave her doorstep, but something stops him.

"When did Gwen tell you about the conference?" he asks.

"This morning," says her mom. "She had to leave a message about it, I'm sure she mentioned it before, but I've just been so … disorganized lately."

Peter guiltily looks away from her, not wanting to witness Gwen's mother's grief, not wanting to remember her red-rimmed eyes and clothes that seem just a bit too wrinkled for a woman who casually serves branzino.

"Thanks," says Peter, now completely unable to shake the feeling that something is wrong. He checks his phone. Surely she would have texted him by now, even just to check in. She has never been the type to leave him hanging. Anxiously he tries to recall every detail of their less-than-successful attempt at talking the day before, but nothing about it struck him as so sensitive or offensive to warrant her disappearing and completely ignoring him.

He decides not to go to his internship, walking straight past the building. He can't focus right now.

"Hey. Hey, kid."

At first it doesn't occur to Peter that someone is talking to him, until he feels a rough hand on his shoulder. He looks up and sees Jameson, who has apparently decided to indulge in a cigar out on the street. Peter doesn't even bother to suppress his eye roll; he's in no mood.

"Where are those pictures I asked you for?"

Peter shoves his shoulder out of Jameson's grasp. "You didn't ask me for any pictures."

"Sure I did," Jameson barks, "I asked for those pictures of Spiderman conspiring with the robots."

"Spiderman's not—" Peter clamps his mouth shut and takes a breath. "You never asked me for those, you must have asked somebody else."

"No, I asked you, I'm sure of it, how many other scrawny little photographers are there in this city?"

Peter starts walking away. "I don't have time for this, I have somewhere to be."

"You better watch yourself, I could fire you faster than—"

"You never _hired_ me," says Peter, "I'm not even on your payroll!"

Jameson scowls. "Sure you are, Perker, you practically robbed me last week."

"_Parker_."

"Listen, Perker, if I don't have some decent shots by _this afternoon_—"

Peter rummages through his backpack, grabs the hardcopies of the photos he touched up the night before, and practically shoves them at Jameson. "It's all I've got," says Peter, "and you better not use them until we negotiate a price. Now if you'll excuse me, I've _got somewhere to be._"

He doesn't. He doesn't have somewhere to be, and that's the most maddening part of Gwen's absence, because he has no idea where he should even start looking. Every major hotel in New York? There had to be at least twenty-five places downtown ritzy enough to host a bunch of international OsCorp interns.

It's pointless to start up a search. He calls her again before he descends into the subway. _Hey, you've reached Gwen Stacy, I'm not available at the moment but—_

Peter shuts the phone off with an unnecessarily hard tap of his finger and the screen cracks and the phone goes black.

He jams it back into his backpack. "Perfect."

The subway ride home seems longer than ever. Peter taps his foot, taps his fingers on his board, clenches his jaw. He shouldn't be so on edge, he knows it, but he can't quite look at anybody because he can't be troubled with even smiling politely at a stranger right now, he can't divide his attention any further than this.

When he finally gets home, his aunt's car isn't in the driveway. He is so distracted that he doesn't think anything of it. She could have gone to the grocery store, or maybe she had switched shifts with one of the younger girls at work again. He doesn't even feel the uncanny tingling of the hairs raising on the back of his neck until he twists his key into the door and realizes it hasn't been locked.

"Aunt May?" he calls. Maybe she took the car to the shop—it's an old clunker, anyway. He holds his breath, waiting for her to answer, his apprehension only mounting as he makes his way into the house.

He isn't alone. His feet lead him to the kitchen and when he flicks on the lights he sees none other than Fisher sitting at his kitchen table, his hands on his father's briefcase.

At first Peter is too stunned to move. His first reaction is to make sense of this—there are a number of reasons why Fisher would be sitting in his kitchen at five o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. Maybe he came to apologize again, maybe Aunt May let him in and left to pick up food for dinner, maybe—

Fisher's lips curl into a smirk and all of Peter's rationalizations fly out the window.

"It would be the son of Richard Parker, wouldn't it be?" says Fisher flippantly. "Playing Spiderman with his daddy's old tricks."

Peter can see all of his father's designs for the formula in Fisher's hands, the ones he himself found just months ago, the ones he was certain he destroyed. His feet fly toward the table and he reaches a hand out to snatch the papers away, but Fisher's reflexes are fast and his grip is painfully strong.

Peter wrenches his hand away. "Where is my aunt?" he demands through gritted teeth.

The placid expression on Fisher's face is both unnerving and infuriating. "It isn't your aunt I'd be worried about just now."

It takes him a second. Then the realization is unfathomable, his reaction physical and unavoidable. Fisher's smirk only deepens as he watches understanding dawn on Peter's face.

"Where is she?" He reaches out to pin Fisher, to throw his against the wall and keep him there, but Fisher grabs his hand again, too easily for anyone human. Peter struggles, shoves his other fist toward Fisher, and Fisher ducks easily. Peter screams in frustration, his blood boiling with a seizing terror and rage he never knew the human body was capable of enduring. He rips his hand out of the wall. "_Where is she?"_

Fisher pushes Peter off of him with ease and dusts off his shoulder where bits plaster stuck to him. "We're willing to cut you a deal," he says. "But only if we have your full cooperation."

There is no price Peter won't pay to get Gwen back. By the look on Fisher's face, this is something he already knows, something he is counting on.

"Take me to her," he says, keeping his fists at his sides. "I'll give you whatever you want."

* * *

Hehehehehe. The plot is obviously thickening. I'm getting close to writing the end bits now, it's kind of surreal.

To those of you who have expressed interest in my music beyond the infamous Andrew Garfield song, I put a link up on my profile to my music page. It's ridiculously girly and country and, well. Proceed with caution.

And thank you guys again for all the reviews :). It brightens up my very long work days which are ALMOST OVER! Can't wait for the semester to start. BOOKS AND LEARNING AND NO PROJECTILE VOMIT. It'll be like living in a dream ...


	32. Chapter 32

**Lying Heart**

* * *

"I'm not going to take you to her," says Fisher.

"Then _tell me where she is,_" Peter demands, and even though he knows it is the least productive move he can make in this situation, he takes another step forward, intending to intimidate Fisher, who sidesteps him with the grace of cat. The frustration overwhelms him and Peter swings his fist, misses, and yells, "How are you doing this?"

"Your dad's not the only master of cross-species genetics left in the world," says Fisher smugly. Then, as if to make a point, he grabs Peter by the back of his shirt collar and swings him through the wall connecting to the living room with a thud that echoes through the whole house.

Peter sits there on the floor, spluttering and outraged. It's impossible. Even if Fisher's father were able to create his own formula, how is it that he is this much stronger than Peter?

"I don't know what you want," Peter yells. "You clearly don't need the formula, you don't _need_ me—why are you doing this and _what have you done with Gwen?_"

Fisher strolls into Peter's living room with a casualty that makes Peter's jaw set forward in impatience.

"This," says Fisher, flexing his fingers ostentatiously, "is only temporary. It's as far as your father ever got on record; these files that he thought he hid from you, my father has had access to them for eleven years." Fisher leans down and narrows his eyes at Peter. "Pathetic as you are, your abilities are permanent. You contain a formula that is every bit as much my birthright as yours."

"What—what are you _talking_ about?"

"Our fathers worked together, all those years ago," says Fisher, "and just when they completed the formula that created _you_—" He pauses, regarding Peter with disgust as he stumbles to his feet. "—your father disappeared, and the formula with him."

"My father's dead," says Peter reflexively.

"Don't _patronize_ me," says Fisher. "I know full well he is alive, and so does my father. The results of the formula are unmistakably inhuman. He knew you had been injected the moment those robots first encountered Spiderman, and it was only a matter of time before the trail led straight back to the _Parker_ family, and straight to your moronic father, who could not have revealed his return in a more public manner when he saved your useless, spandex-clad ass."

Peter knows he should be upset about all this, that it concerns not just his and his father's safety, but the safety of the world as they know it, but his heart is pounding in every vein in his body, through his throat and against his skull, every beat of it consumed with the thought of Gwen, snatched away and terrified and _waiting_ for him. He processes it all as if another Peter, out of his own body, is dealing with the facts: Fisher's father worked with his father on the cross-species project, Fisher's father created the robots that have been attacking the city for weeks, Fisher's father has figured out his identity and this may be the end of him ever hoping to lead a normal life again.

None of it matters. None of it matters but her.

"I don't care about _any_ of this. _Tell me where she is_."

* * *

It takes him a full half an hour to even reach Manhattan, even slinging across the bridge at full speed without any heed to the ice or the cars below him. After Fisher bluntly informed him that Gwen was waiting for him at Midtown Science, Peter demanded to know how that could even be possible, where she had been all day if she was suddenly being held there now, but Fisher had left his house quickly and by the time Peter chased him out the door he had slipped away somewhere without a trace.

Peter is smart. He considers that this is a trap, that there is a possibility that Gwen isn't even there, that this is the most colossally stupid thing he has ever done, but even as he acknowledges all of this, he is simply out of any other options. He will go to Midtown Science regardless of the consequences because it is the only place he can go, the only option he has. He brings with him extra biocable devices and all that is left of the antidote that Gwen supplied him with last month because he has no idea what to expect.

He's nearly to the front doors when something collides with him hard enough to knock him off his feet.

"_Dad?_"

The word escapes him reflexively; he would never say it with any real sentiment, except he is so stunned to see the man on the ground beside him that he doesn't have enough time to think of old grudges.

He gets up much faster than Peter does. "You're not going in there."

"Like hell I'm not," says Peter, throwing his body weight back toward the front doors, but his father knocks him back down before he can even get off the ground and immediately pins him down by his shoulder. Peter tries to wrench away but they are hopelessly, evenly matched. "Let _go _of me!"

"You aren't thinking straight—"

"They've got _Gwen!_" Peter screams, finally ripping his body out from under his father's hold, accidentally kneeing him in the face in the process. The other man reels away and Peter runs for the doors, but suddenly jerks back; he feels the familiar tug of a biocable attaching to him, and turns around in complete astonishment and says to his father, "Are you _fucking serious?_"

By the time he untangles himself his father has caught up to him and grabbed his arm. "Would you just listen to me before you go running in there like a complete lunatic?" he growls.

"Listen? To _you?_ That ship sailed a long time ago," says Peter. He swings up a fist but his father dodges it, almost as if he was expecting it before Peter even thought to do it. Peter stares at him in disgust. "So you did inject yourself with the formula. Then you _stole_ my biocables—how did you even know where I was?"

"Your phone," his father says curtly. "The moment it broke I knew something was—"

"You tapped my _phone?_" Peter asks incredulously. "What is wrong with you? Is there anything you won't do?" He unsuccessfully tries to wrench his hand out of his father's grasp again and says, "You've had these abilities this whole time, where have you been_?_"

"Yes, I injected myself with the formula," says his father, "because I was young, and I was stupid, and it _got your mother killed_. Would you _please_ just listen to me?"

Peter rounds on him. He knows what he has to do to get inside; he can feel the weight of the answer in his backpack, and he will have to be quick.

"If you ever loved my mother, the way I grew up thinking you did, then you will get out of my way right now. Because you'll understand. I don't have a choice."

He has given his father a chance to step out of his way, but he doesn't take it and that is how Peter rationalizes what he has to do next.

"You _never_ loved her," says Peter, not because he thinks it's true, but because he needs to hit him with the hardest blow he's got, or else he's going to realize what Peter is doing too soon. Just as Peter thought, his father reels back, the hurt in his eyes raw and telling. It is the fraction of a second Peter needs to grab the antidote out of his partially unzipped backpack—grab it, and stab it into his father's side with all of his might.

It's a temporary solution, a muscle relaxant that will probably only slow the man down for the next few minutes, but it is more than enough time than Peter needs.

His father's eyes widen, staring down at the needle as he pulls it out. "Peter," he says disbelievingly, sounding so injured and stunned that Peter feels a twinge of remorse.

He has to act fast, though. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, and then he balls his fist and clocks the other man in the face so hard he hits the ground, unconscious.

Fisher didn't give Peter specific details on where Gwen was being held, but Peter doesn't need them. Once he is in the building something primal and instinctual commands him, and he runs at impossible speeds through the halls, narrowly avoiding lockers as he skids to make turns. His feet lead him to the gymnasium; he shoves open the doors with enough force to knock them off their hinges.

"Peter Parker."

He whips around. There is a short, fat, balding man halfway across the gym from him. Peter all but ignores him in his search for Gwen—he sees another one of the robots, this one much smaller, the exact replica of the one that he saw the plans for in OsCorp, but his eyes sweep right over it—he can't find her.

"Where's Gwen?"

The man, presumably Fisher's father, looks nothing like Fisher. The only indication that they are related is that he walks with the same smug, maddening confidence that Fisher does. "She's safe."

Peter backs away from the stout man as he starts to approach. He peels off his mask—there is no point now, and he feels like he can't breathe in it now that he has swept every corner of this room and can't find her. "You won't get anything from me until I see her, until you let her go."

The man walks past Peter and toward the supply closet, which is partially ajar. He kicks it open. Gwen is sitting tied to a chair, her eyes wide, her hair a mess, but otherwise unharmed. The sight of her breathing in that chair may be the most precious thing he has ever laid eyes on. At this moment she is alive. At this moment he still has a chance to keep her that way.

"Peter," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. She's shaking her head at him. He's running toward her, ignoring her reaction, but just then the stout man shouts that he'd better not get any closer, and Peter sees that the unmanned robot is pointing all of its weaponry at Gwen's pale, shaking form.

He skids to a halt. She is so close.

"We have matters to discuss, and if you decide to cooperate, the girl will walk free."

"I'll do it," says Peter, "what do you want?"

"Peter, _stop_," says Gwen.

The man's eyes are gleaming, looking at Peter with a hunger in his eyes. "I want the formula embedded in your DNA," he says. "But more than that, I want you out of my way."

"It's you, then. You've been sending these robots all around Manhattan," Peter says lowly, careful to stay in the sightline of the robot with its weapons set on Gwen.

Now that he is closer Peter can see his receding hairline is dotted with beads of sweat, but it only serves to make him seem more threatening and unpredictable than before. "Yes." He turns his back on Peter, his hands crossed behind his back, and Peter can tell he is in for a long-winded explanation that he doesn't want or need.

Peter turns slightly to look over at Gwen. Her eyes are wide and glassy and wet. She shakes her head at him again, and all the noise seems to funnel out of the room; the man is talking, but Peter doesn't hear him, all he hears is the nothingness of Gwen shaking her head at him and essentially asking him to leave her here to die.

He has to look away from her. He hates himself for inspiring this sort of insanity in her, he hates that she would take everything for granted for him, after he has done nothing but cause her pain.

When he faces the man again he is mid-monologue.

"… Initially, I was angry. I was _furious._ How could they reject a design as flawless as this, a design with the potential to change the face of modern warfare? So I had to _show _them. They would regret rejecting my proposal. They would see what it was capable of as a fully developed product, and feel foolish for having ever dismissed me in the first place."

Peter has some vague understanding of what he's saying, but his mind is far removed from the madman, to twenty feet away in the open supply closet where the only girl he has ever loved is trying to die for him.

"But then I saw something much more valuable," the man says. "Something I thought had died with Richard Parker over a decade ago."

Peter nods solemnly. "The formula. Me."

"I don't need you," the man says, scowling. "I need your DNA, and I need you to disappear. I don't know what you have been doing to corrupt my robots, but it won't happen again—not only is this model far more advanced than the previous ones, but it is operating on a frequency that can pick up changes in my nervous system. I can control it from here without even needing to move." He regards Peter with irritation and disgust. "You won't be able to tamper with it again."

"Fine," says Peter, "I'll leave them alone. I promise. Just let her go."

"Your promises mean nothing to me, boy. I need a permanent solution." He produces a serum not unlike the ones Peter has dealt with in the past few weeks and holds it out for Peter to see.

"You're going to disable my abilities?" asks Peter.

"No," he says simply. "I'm going to preserve them with this."

"Preserve them?" asks Peter skeptically.

The man nods, holding the needle further from himself, as if displaying it for Peter's benefit. "Once it has ensured that the material embedded in your DNA will not deteriorate, the serum will slow the activity of your organs, little by little, until it kills you."

"_No!_" Gwen is screaming before Peter even walks forward; they both know his choice has already been made.

"You untie her first," says Peter.

"Peter, don't." The plea is strangled, desperate, heart-wrenching. "Please," she begs, "please, please, _don't do this!_"

The man says, "Sleep," and Peter watches the life die out of the robot's eyes. "I've disabled it. She isn't in any danger now and will be released upon your cooperation—I have no use for her after this."

The walk toward the serum is effortless, the decision easier than any he has ever made.

"Oh god," Gwen screams. "Peter, stop—oh god, oh _god_."

He turns to her briefly. He wants to tell her that he loves her, but this is all wrong, this terrible moment that will be his last. He watches her as she struggles against her bindings just short of knocking the chair over, gasping dry, panicked sobs, her eyes locked on his, begging, pleading.

He ducks his head down slightly. It's the closest to telling her that he will ever come, and she stops struggling for a moment, hiccupping and shaking but without a doubt understanding what it means.

The man grabs Peter's arm, holding up the needle. Peter looks at Gwen one last time. There are a hundred more appropriate things to say, but all he manages is one simple, "I'm sorry."


	33. Chapter 33

**Lying Heart**

* * *

He feels the needle breaking the skin of his forearm and then all hell breaks loose. All Peter hears at first is the sound of a shot ringing out; it hits him in the leg and he doubles over in surprise, the needle slipping out, the man taking a few steps back, stunned. The shots keep coming, but they aren't aimed at Peter—he turns around and sees that it's Fisher holding a gun, and now the bullets are aimed at none other than Peter's father, who has slammed the door to the supply closet to protect Gwen from the chaos. He approaches Fisher and deftly knocks the gun out of his hand, then shoves him against a wall and holds him there.

"Richard _Parker_," says Fisher's father. "I should have known you wouldn't stay out of this."

"Percy," Peter's father acknowledges grimly.

Fisher thrashes under his chokehold. It is apparent that whatever temporary abilities he was equipped with before have now faded, and that he wasn't expecting Peter's father to run in on the chaos.

"Let go of him," says Percy, holding tight to Peter's arm, "or I'll activate the robot, and the girl will—"

Peter thrashes away from him, toward the supply closet door, when Percy yells, "One step further and I'll have her killed—it's on voice command."

Peter halts. Lets Percy take hold of his arm again. From across the room Peter and Fisher stare at each other, both inescapably trapped by the other's father. The situation strikes him as almost comical, but it's a situation that can't go on much longer, as Fisher's starts choking against Richard's hold and the blood rushing up to his face mottles and purples under his skin.

"Activate," Percy orders, and the robot flares back to life with an unsettling hum. He turns to Richard, his face remarkably calm for a man whose son is choking to death. "Your son for mine, Parker. Let him go."

"I don't trust you," Peter's father growls.

"You're going to have to," he says, thrusting the needle closer to Peter. Peter flinches, intending to swing a fist at Percy and free himself on instinct, but before he can even finish the movement the robot jerks forward and rips the supply closet door off its hinges. Gwen shrieks in alarm, clamoring back to get away from the door and almost knocking the chair over in the process.

"Let him go," says Peter desperately, only taking his eyes off of Gwen for a moment to make his plea. "Let him go."

Richard's grasp on Fisher's neck loosens just barely enough for Fisher to squeak in a breath. "Put the needle down," says Richard lowly, "or I will let him die."

The robot's attention is eerily intent on Gwen, and when she wriggles and tries to right the chair, its weaponry clicks out of its metal arms and aims itself right at her.

"Dad," says Peter desperately. Richard is surprised into looking at Peter for the first time since he stormed into the room, and Peter is careful not to let his gaze waver. "Please."

Richard hesitates. Peter can see the doubt in his eyes, and something that almost seems to him like fear. He is afraid for him, Peter realizes with some disbelief. It is probably the least convenient moment in all of these eleven years for Richard to decide he cares about what happens to Peter, but Peter can't help the strange loosening in his chest, the relief that maybe his father really did regret the years of doubt and unanswered questions that plagued Peter all this time.

It takes a few moments, but slowly, his eyes trained on Peter, he releases Fisher—Peter inhales deeply, his sights set on Gwen, but then the needle sinks into Peter's arm with a sharp sting and a dulling sensation.

Just as quickly as it dulls him it burns through his veins, seeming to worsen with every heartbeat. He can't help stumbling to his knees, the pain crippling and unstoppable.

"_Peter!_"

For a moment he can't answer. He sucks in a breath, a painful relief, and the agony seems to subside. He staggers to his feet.

His father is running toward him. Gwen is screaming incoherently. Fisher is—Peter can't see Fisher anymore, he doesn't know where Fisher is, but Percy is moving, moving toward the robot.

"Stop," Peter gasps, trying to point, "_stop_ him."

"Peter," says his father, grabbing him by the elbows, hoisting him up.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," says Peter, trying to right himself.

His father picks up the needle from the ground. Its contents are empty. He looks up at Peter, shaking his head, blinking hard. "I'm so sorry," he says to Peter, touching his cheek in a gesture that is foreign but inexplicably familiar to him. Peter is too surprised to pull away. "I'm so sorry … this is all my fault."

"I'm okay," says Peter, more confidently, feeling like a child in that he suddenly needs his father to nod at him and confirm it. He doesn't. Peter has to wrench his eyes away—the despair, the hopelessness in his father's eyes is scaring him.

He turns again to Percy, only to see that he has managed to clamber inside of the robot in the time they have been distracted. It whirs to life, louder than before, and hovers over the gym floor. It heads straight toward them, prepared to fire.

Peter shoves his mask back on and slings biocables from both of his wrists, propelling himself at the torso of the robot, where he knows Percy is protected inside. He smashes it with his fist; it makes a small dent, just enough, Peter thinks, to stall Percy for a moment, and it's that moment that Peter takes to turn to his father. Richard is still standing there, floundering, staring at Peter with incomprehensible grief.

"Go," shouts Peter, hoping that it will make his father collect himself. "_Get Gwen out of here_."

He doesn't know if he gets through to the man, because the robot is shooting upward, with Peter still in tow. They crash through the ceiling of the gymnasium. Peter cringes at the impact but holds tight nonetheless. It is a feeling of vertigo that is becoming all too familiar, a chase that he has now instigated many times in the past month, but it doesn't make it any easier to fight this battle that will most certainly end one of them, once and for all.

Peter tries to punch through the panel protecting Percy again, but it makes an even less significant dent than his last attempt. His arms feel heavier somehow. As they ascend and he feels the whir of the robot preparing its weapons he throws himself off and lets himself fall for a few seconds before shooting a biocable at a building and throwing his body weight toward it and out of the line of fire.

He is sluggish, he is nowhere near as fast as he is in his prime, but he is functioning and it's enough. Enough to keep up this chase he will inevitably lose long enough that his father can untie Gwen and take her someplace safe. Peter has accepted his own demise enough times in the past few weeks, so that now, after a dozen or so of these horrifying, life-altering moments, he almost thinks nothing of the fact that he will, most likely, be dead within the next few minutes. It doesn't matter. Gwen will be safe, and with Peter dead, hopefully nothing will ever threaten her safety again.

He has maybe only traveled half a block by the time Percy has located him. Peter doesn't need to turn and look to know that Percy is probably a hair-raising hundred or so yards behind him. He shoots another biocable toward an adjacent building and yanks himself sideways, hoping to evade the man, but this robot seems to be every bit as capable with heat-seeking technology as the last. The laser that hits Peter blows straight through an office building and sinks into his arm.

The shot knocks him off balance and the next biocable doesn't hit its target. Peter is aware he is falling, but his keen reflexes are deteriorating—he knows it shouldn't be so difficult to find purchase on another surface but he can't think fast enough or see far enough to find one.

His back hits the awning of a café, which rips and sends him hurtling to the cement. He gasps at the impact, trying to get back up to his feet, to _run_, even though he knows how completely futile it is. His head is spinning—is this the serum, or did he just hit his head really hard? How much longer can he keep this up? Is he far enough away from the school that it's making any difference?

"C'mon, Parker, I didn't think you were _this_ pathetic!"

Peter arches his head up at the noise. The figure is dressed all in black and crawling up the side of a building across the street; Peter doesn't have to be close to him to know that it's Fisher, and that he has injected himself with whatever temporary serum enables him to mimic Peter's own abilities. Peter assumed the serum would be more akin to whatever Connors injected himself with, but now that Peter sees Fisher in action, he sees that it's more related to whatever his father injected him with the night of the fourth attacks, when Peter didn't have his abilities back yet.

Fisher shoots his own biocable at the building Peter just fell from, jerking himself over to Peter. Peter stares at him incredulously, making a mental note to be more careful about where he stashes those devices on the decidedly unlikely chance that he survives this.

Fisher slams straight into Peter before he can get out of the way, throwing him at the building wall. Peter groans, and Fisher steps back and regards Peter's limping form with disgust.

"You don't have to kill me," says Peter, "you don't have to _do_ this—"

"_Shut up_." Fisher kicks him, not hard enough to knock him over, but hard enough that Peter stumbles again. "Look at you—wasted, pitiful, useless—this was supposed to be _me! _I wouldn't have taken it all for granted—"

"And what were you going to do with these abilities?" Peter challenges him, with the boldness of a dead man. "Huh? Go show off to a bunch of girls, tear it up on your board, make your _daddy _proud of you?"

A deep, throaty growl erupts out of Fisher as he shoves Peter again. This is silly, this is just plain old playground bullying—Peter almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. He thinks that Fisher doesn't really care all that much to kill him; he thinks Fisher probably doesn't even know how.

They're interrupted by an earth-shattering explosion, just to the left of them. The robot is nowhere in sight, and Peter rationalizes that it must be using its heat-seeking mechanisms to tear through the building. If Fisher hadn't just shoved him aside it would have hit him and easily ended him in one blow.

Fisher seems more surprised by the blow than Peter is. Peter takes the opportunity to throw himself at the building—at the very least, his fingers are still latching on and able to scale up the wall.

Fisher grabs his foot, tries to tear him back down, and Peter kicks him in the face and keeps climbing.

"It's pointless, Parker," Fisher calls after him, climbing up the wall behind him with what Peter suspects is a much more impressive speed. "I saw that needle go in. You're _dead_. Just give it up and spare us all the trouble."

Peter grits his teeth and tries to focus on climbing higher. He knows that, he _knows_, but Fisher is too obtuse to understand Peter's intentions for keeping up this ridiculous chase. His heart beats seem to come with exaggerated slowness, his chest is aching, and with every foot he climbs he feels himself fighting this inexplicable drowsy sensation and desire to let his eyes sink closed. Percy was not lying about the serum. It's Peter's job to try and outrun it.

Fisher latches on to Peter's left leg and tugs. Peter kicks back, but it's futile, Fisher's grip on him is too strong.

"I don't know why my dad even gave a shit about you," Fisher screams. "You're _nothing!_"

At the last syllable Fisher wrenches Peter's leg down and Peter starts tumbling the forty or so feet back down to the pavement; about halfway down, he is about to shut his eyes, bracing for the white hot shock of his body thudding to the ground, when he sees it: an explosion has ripped through the building, to the exact spot Peter was only balancing seconds before, and it has blown Fisher out of the way like a rag doll.

Peter hits the ground, and a second later, only a few yards away, so does Fisher. Peter doesn't have to look to know that Fisher is dead.

He lets himself stare up at the night sky, remembering the night not so long ago that he had let his biocables run out and hit the ground with a similarly paralyzing crash. Remembering how he lamented that he could never see the stars in such a bright city. He stares up at the blackness again now, breathing in, breathing out. The city is silent. Percy thinks that Peter is dead.

He doesn't know how much time passes before he hears the slight crunch of the robot landing on the destroyed pavement. Peter closes his eyes and turns his head away. He doesn't know much about Percy, just enough to hate him, but he cannot watch this man discover his son's lifeless body, cannot watch him realize the gravest mistake of his life.

In the distance he can hear Percy's screams. It occurs to Peter that the man really shouldn't be that far away, but everything sounds far away now, as if Peter's senses have been muffled and dulled. This is dying, Peter thinks, but it isn't so bad. It's slow and a little bit warm, like falling asleep in the sun.

A shot rings out and Peter jerks reflexively, with a last gasp of alertness he didn't know was still in him. He sees his father holding a gun and knows that Percy must be dead now, too.

"Peter. Oh, god." His father is closer now, close enough to tear off Peter's mask. He feels his head being lifted off the pavement, feels his father trying to prop him upward and giving up when he realizes how far gone he is. He sets Peter back down gently. Peter blinks up at him, barely able to make out the features on the man's face.

He takes a breath, or at least he intends to. It seems like years before he is finally able to croak out the last unanswered question keeping him on this earth: "Gwen?"

"She's safe," says his father.

Finally, he can close his eyes.

* * *

Hey fanfiction ... can you keep a secret? The reason I'm updating early today is because I got off work early today and all of this week and I'm driving up two hours to go home and surprise my parents. TO THE SISTERS I KNOW ARE READING THIS: please. keep. your mouths shut. One of you I trust to do this. The other ... I love you, but you know who you are.

Time to hit the road screaming country music and reveling in the fact that I FINALLY FINISHED WRITING THIS GIANT WHALE OF A STORY. The last chapter should be posted on Thursday. You have all been forewarned.


	34. Chapter 34

**Lying Heart**

* * *

It's a weird sensation, feeling his own heartbeat slow in his chest, as if the muscle is tiring and thickening and losing momentum. Peter hasn't breathed for a long time, but somehow he is still here, deaf and unseeing but alive. His father seems to understand this, because he doesn't leave Peter's side, or at least Peter is somewhat certain that he hasn't. He feels a rough hand on his forehead, pushing his hair out of his face—maybe he's imagining it, but it feels too familiar, too innate for him to delude it.

Peter remembers when his father used to put him to bed, how he would read him a story and promise to stay in his room until he fell asleep. It's the kind of memory that Peter has long since forgotten, one that he may have never recovered if it weren't for this awful moment, lying on the cement beside his father and waiting to die. The memory comforts him, gives him some ability to forgive his father in these final moments. He must have loved Peter once, to sit there in that chair every night without fail and wait for him. He must have.

It's hard to be upset. Peter wants to be, but there is nothing difficult about this, there is no decision left to be made. He doesn't want to die, but he finds himself not minding it. He wonders if he'll see Uncle Ben. He wonders if he'll see his mother. At least he won't have too much to answer about if he sees Gwen's dad.

Will he know when it happens, when it's finally over? There have been plenty of moments Peter has assumed his own demise and been mistaken, but this time he is almost curious what will happen to him, if he will remember anything about this at all.

After that, it's Gwen he thinks of, mostly. He knows she will be okay, in her own way, eventually. She is bright, she is resilient—she is already exceptional, and has the potential to go on and be even greater than she already is. It's Gwen who will be a real hero at the end of this, Peter is sure. It's Gwen who will change the world. He wishes he could be here to watch it happen, but even if he were it would be at arm's length, always hoping for her happiness but disavowing it, always thinking in his selfish heart that she would be happier if she were with him.

It's better this way. Now he can wish the best for her and mean it.

The hand pushes his hair back again and stays there. He can't feel his heart beating anymore. His limbs feel so light and weightless that he isn't sure if his body still exists.

"_Peter!_"

It sounds like a memory; he has heard her call his name like this plenty of times before.

"Is he—is he—?"

She's crying. Peter wonders how she found him, but she has always had an uncanny knack for being in the last place Peter wants her to be.

His father doesn't say anything, or at least nothing that Peter can hear, but there must be a look or a gesture or some kind of finality because Gwen screams the word "_no_" and Peter feels her hands on his chest, wringing her fingers into the spandex of his suit as if she is searching for something. He hears great, gulping sobs, and the sound of his father saying that it's over, that they have to leave.

"_No_," Gwen shrieks, "I'm not—I'm not _leaving_ him here."

There is a long pause. "There is nothing more we can do."

He feels an indescribable pressure on his chest, a rhythm, constant and hard. "No," says Gwen again, her voice strained, and Peter realizes that she is trying to press into him and start his heart. He remembers watching her in gym class two years ago, the memory almost like a snapshot: she was doing this to a practice dummy, laughing at some joke her friend made, her hair just slightly untucked from its headband—Peter watched her so long that his own practice dummy probably died from lack of oxygen. He loved her then, before he knew her, and he loves her now, now that he knows almost everything.

It's an unimportant thing to remember at a time like this, but in a way it's the most important. It's this girl that he loves even at her most ordinary. He could pick through a thousand unremarkable memories of her and feel the same overwhelming, undeniable rush every time.

She won't give up on him now. His heart isn't beating, and he has the distinct sense that she is the only reason he is still here.

"Come on," she says, and the pulse of her hands on his chest is harder, faster. "_Peter_."

His father's voice is low and pained. "You have to let him go."

Gwen ignores him. "He won't die, he's—Peter, please," she says, and the words seem to squeak out of her like a balloon losing its helium, as if there they are trapped in her throat. He feels her lift up his head just a moment before he feels the warm, intrusive burst of her breath in his lungs. His head touches cement again and she starts the rhythm against his chest, persistent and unstoppable.

There are sirens in the distance.

"They'll help him. You have to—an ambulance—"

His father takes in a shuddering breath. "He's gone."

"He _isn't_," she screams, "he _can't_ be."

"You don't understand … the serum … there is no coming back."

_Thump. Thump. Thump._ She doesn't stop. Peter can almost feel every inch of himself fading if it weren't for the pounding on his chest, artificially pumping his useless heart.

"Help!" Gwen screams, "You have to help him!"

"Don't get them involved—"

"Peter, _please!_" She pounds a frustrated fist into his chest and the contact is so jarring that his body arches reflexively. "P-Peter?"

"Ma'am, you're going to have to move out of the way."

Peter feels people all around him now, bodies he doesn't know.

"Please, you have to save him," says Gwen, "_please_."

She isn't near him anymore. He can't feel her hands on his chest, can't feel anything at all. He doesn't want this. His father is right; it's over. He wishes for a moment that she had just let him go peacefully, had let him die with the comfort of her at his side, but as the rest of his thoughts slide into oblivion he knows that if Gwen is the same girl he has loved all this time, she would never let him go that easily.

* * *

He doesn't see Uncle Ben, or his mother, or anyone, for that matter. He has dreams that seem to tangle and interweave. Sometimes he realizes he is dreaming, sometimes he thinks he is dead, sometimes he is so unflinchingly certain that it is reality that it crushes him to be torn away from it.

He dreams of sitting in the back of his parents' car that rainy night they dropped him off. He dreams of his father setting him down on the kitchen counter, of watching his legs dangle so far from the tiled floor. He dreams of man with the star tattoo on his wrist. He dreams of overdue term papers and his first camera and the day the neighbor's dog chased him half a mile from his house. He dreams of his mother asking him if he wanted to be a big brother; dreams of this necklace she used to wear, and how she would watch herself in the mirror when she clasped it around her neck.

He dreams of things long forgotten and things that demand his every shred of his attention. He dreams of Gwen, but shortly, and unhappily. She never stays long enough.

What feels like hundred years of dreaming ends in a flash. His eyes fly open and he gasps, his entire body wracking with agony—he's in the ambulance, people are hovering over him, everything seems too bright. He closes his eyes, expecting to fall into the abyss again, but the next shock comes to soon and he jerks forward and breathes this time, really breathes.

He is alive. His body is screaming with the unbearable, amazing realization of it. There are several sets of hands trying to deter him from sitting up, but Peter can't help himself, and he shoots up, unwittingly ripping equipment off his body.

He's breathing. His heart beats like a gunning engine. He looks around wildly, eyes wide, gulping everything in. The two people in the ambulance with him have backed up as if he might strike at any moment. Peter tries to laugh and wheezes, putting a hand to his chest, feeling everything at once. He croaks a thank you to the emergency personnel. Nobody tries to stop him as he barrels out of the ambulance.

As soon as he leaves the ambulance he sees her, her back turned to him, her body still shaking and her face obscured by her hands. He runs to her. He will tell her everything. He will love her with every fiber of his being, love her the way she deserves, and never look back.

"Gwen," he exclaims.

She turns her head. He sees a fringe of hair, a curve of her cheek, the beginnings of a smile.

Then the dream tears out from under his feet. She is gone, she is faded away, and Peter is alone in the abyss again.

She never stays long enough.

* * *

When he finally wakes up, he's in his bedroom.

There is nothing startling about it. By the way the light is shifting in his window he guesses it's sometime in the evening. There are several needles embedded into his skin, and Peter quietly pulls them out and tries to sit up.

His aunt flinches awake from the desk. She looks at him with some amount of disbelief. There are creases on her cheeks where she rested them on his papers and the general disarray of the desk surface, and her eyes are bleary, her whole posture slumped and much older then Peter ever remembers her seeming.

"How did I … ?" Peter starts.

She stands quickly and walks over to him. "You're talking," she says, shaking her head, her eyes wet.

"I—yeah," he agrees. "But I—I thought that—"

"Your father," says Aunt May. She shakes her head again. "I swear, Peter, I swear. I didn't know."

Peter hoists himself up and his aunt kneels next to his bed so they're finally at eye level with each other. "What happened?"

She reaches out to smooth the bed covers unnecessarily. "I'm not sure about the details," she says, "but you never showed up for dinner—and there were holes in our walls—and I tried not to worry, but then, then the whole night passed, and your phone wasn't on, and sometime in the morning there was a knock at the door, and—" She pauses, blinking hard, frowning. "A man was carrying you. Your _father_."

Peter nods. "He's—well. I guess he's alive."

"I didn't know," she says again. "I realize now—that that's what you were getting at, and—I did recognize his handwriting on that note, Peter, I did, but I just couldn't even imagine that he was still alive, it seemed impossible. Eleven years …"

"Yeah," says Peter, not quite able to look at her. He wonders how Aunt May feels knowing the truth—that she didn't really need to be taking care of Peter all these years, that the burden of raising him could have easily been lifted by a man who decided to disappear.

She touches a hand to his cheek and says, "Hey."

He looks up guardedly. The corner of her mouth twitches upward.

"Lord knows you've given me more trouble than any old woman deserves," she says. "But I wouldn't trade a moment of it. Not for anything. You understand?"

* * *

I realize that I have drastically confused people: I said that the last chapter was up Thursday, and some of you thought that that meant the next chapter was the last one and I was waiting three days to post it, but what I meant was I had three more chapters left, and the last of all the chapters will be posted on Thursday. Someday I will make sense to other humans. Until then ... I will write fanfiction.

In other news, I'm officially on iTunes! Not for the Andrew Garfield song, but there's only so much creepering a person can do on the internet before it gets just plain weird, and I think it's safe to say I already crossed that line somewhere within the 200 pages of this story. Trawlawlawlawl.


	35. Chapter 35

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Later his aunt explains that he was revived several times in the ambulance, and after Gwen's persistent screaming and protestations, his father decided, against his better judgment, to take Peter to a facility not far from the attack, where Gwen sat at his side all night and diligently shocked him back every time his heart stopped. Aunt May says she doesn't know much more than that, except that he was delivered to her the next morning when they seemed to think he was stable enough again. His father hardly spoke at all, except to give Aunt May instructions and to set Peter down.

Peter somehow doubts this part of the story. Aunt May was surely full of questions that his father couldn't have avoided or written off the way he did to Peter. But Peter isn't up to prying her.

"I wish you would stay in tonight," Aunt May laments, before Peter even says anything about leaving.

His lips pucker guiltily. "The robots are gone," says Peter. "And Gwen, I have to talk to Gwen."

Aunt May nods. "She wanted to stay, but your father drove her home."

It's the kind of phrase that might be uttered in a normal household but it strikes Peter as so nonsensical that he can't help his expression souring slightly at implausibility of it. A week ago his father was dead, and now he's driving his long-time high school crush home from Queens. He tries to imagine that car ride and he imagines she didn't make it at all pleasant for him.

"I won't be gone long," he says.

Aunt May raises her eyebrows. "I won't count on it."

* * *

She's waiting for him at the window. She's reading a book, trying to look occupied, but her chair is tilted in the opposite direction of her desk, so he knows that she has one eye on the glass. She's on her feet and trying to wrench the window open before he even manages to land on the fire escape.

"Peter," she gasps, standing there dumbfounded, not quite letting him inside.

It seems like a miracle, seeing her in her bedroom. Her hair is tangled, her face still gritty and smeared with grime from the night before, and she clearly hasn't changed clothes at all since his father delivered her back to her place. But she is safe. She is whole.

She is leaning toward him with her eyes closed at a speed and proximity that makes his heart leap into his throat. He licks his lips.

"Wait," he says, so quietly that she doesn't hear him. Their lips almost meet. "Wait."

She stops, looking up at him, her expression both reckless and tremulous. "I don't want to."

"I have to—I have something to say."

"No," she says, stepping aside so he can slide into her room. Before he can even plant his feet on the carpet her arms are around him; he can't help but reciprocate, drawing her in, smelling the familiar smell of her and feeling the unmistakable magic of the way her body fits with his. "Not tonight. I don't want to talk. Please."

Trying to separate her body from his is the slowest form of torture. He loosens his grip, untangles his arms from her and firmly puts his hands on her shoulders, nudging her away from him just slightly.

She looks at him incredulously, then buries her head in his chest, rebelling against him.

"Just wait," he says again, softer this time, coaxing her to meet his eyes. She looks up at him warily. He knows what she is expecting. Another speech about how they can't keep doing this, about how this is the last time they will speak to each other this way, about the promise and her safety and the dozens of other factors that have interfered with their happiness since the day she first spoke to him.

Instead he finds himself blurting the words, "I love you."

She hardly even reacts. It is the first time he has ever said it out loud, but it isn't news to either of them. Her body goes rigid slightly under his grasp and she forces a little smile and says, "But?"

"But—but nothing," he says.

"But you can't be with me."

He hangs his head slightly. "You could have died," he says into her hair.

"I would have," says Gwen, "the same way you did for me. Peter—"

"This is coming out all wrong," says Peter, shaking his head, wishing he could backtrack to the window and just kiss her, because every time he has tried to rely on words to express how he feels about her he has only failed miserably at it. He walks away from her, running a frustrated hand through his hair. When he turns back around she is a good five feet away and looking at him warily. "I _love_ you," he says again.

"So just—love me, then," says Gwen, "it doesn't have to be like this."

He stares at her and tries for both their sakes to believe it could ever be that simple. He stares until her eyes grow wide with anticipation and her mouth starts to twist impatiently. "Peter," she says, taking dangerous steps toward him. The determination in her face is so palpable that for the first time in a long time he hears the captain's words ringing at a frequency that makes his whole body cringe.

_Leave Gwen out of it_.

He backs up easily. He is much faster than she is. She scowls, understanding but not understanding well enough, and then the words are spilling out of him. It makes him think of the night Uncle Ben was shot, how the blood just kept pouring out of him, until Peter couldn't even tell where it was coming from anymore. He feels the same way now that he did then—helpless, powerless, out of control.

"It's basic biology," he stammers. "It's you, and me, and pheromones, or fate, or I don't know, Gwen, but it's impossible to stay away from you, I just can't do it. Please, Gwen," he begs, "please. I can't do it. Please."

"What?" she demands. "Please what, Peter?"

"Please," he says. "Please just … you have to stay away from me. Because I can't do it."

Her eyes are steely. "I won't."

"Gwen." It feels like his knees might sink into the earth. He's tired. God, he's so tired, and nothing he says will make her understand, but he tries anyway. "I _promised._"

"I don't _care_."

"I do!" Peter yells. "_I_ care. Not about the promise, about _you_. You're not going to get caught up in this again, Gwen, and even if I hadn't promised your father, nothing would change: I can't be with you, I can't even be _near _you—I'm making enemies, Gwen, new ones every day, and if another one figures out—if they ever know how I—how I _feel_ about you, and they find some way to hurt you—"

"No," Gwen cuts him off. "No, you don't get to talk like that. It's an excuse, Peter," she says plainly. And when he doesn't answer fast enough, she says, "What? What is this, Peter? We take an inch forward and move a mile back—I can't understand this, why you treat me this way, what _is_ it? Are you _scared?_ Are you _guilty?_"

Peter flinches. Gwen's face finally softens a bit.

"You shouldn't be. It wasn't your fault."

It is his fault. She understands this, of course, and it kills him that she insists on denying it. He turns away from her. He can't do this anymore. He's so tired, just so tired. He's been running for so long, from the police, from reality, from her. Suddenly it is too much to bear, and he leans against the wall of her bedroom and lets himself slide to the floor.

For a moment he just sits there with his head in his hands, thinking she should walk away, praying that she won't.

After a little while he hears her kneel down and sit beside him. It is quiet now. Peter thinks that maybe they are really only themselves with each other after one of them has ended up screaming. He isn't surprised by the weight of her head on his shoulder, isn't surprised when he feels his arm wedge between her back and the wall to pull her closer to him.

"I can't lose you," he says finally, the words like gravel in his throat.

She burrows her head deeper into the crook of his neck. "Then stop leaving."

Leaving isn't the problem, Peter thinks. The problem is that he never left.

They sit there for a long time. Peter can hear her brothers making a ruckus a few rooms away, can hear dishes clinking in her kitchen, can feel her breath on his neck. He's afraid to move and he thinks she must be, too. But it's Gwen who moves first—isn't it always?—arching her head slightly, looking up at him with a question in her eyes.

He doesn't make a conscious decision to kiss her. The way she is looking at him in the dark is so reminiscent of the night all those months ago he barged into her room after his bloody encounter with Connors that for a moment he forgets himself, forgets everything that has happened, and even forgets to feel sorry when their lips finally meet and the noises of the world seem to evaporate around them.

It isn't like their first kiss, not by a long shot, but in some ways it is—intense, breathtaking, surreal, but this time full of an unspeakable kind of sadness. He shifts his body, pulls her in tighter. It feels they are suspended in this moment, dangling from a thread, and he has to keep her here or she might disappear and all of this will be just some illusion of what might have been.

"Gwen," he says breathlessly, in a brief moment that they pull apart, but she grabs the back of his neck and pulls him back in. She isn't ready for it to end, and he doesn't have the power to end it. It's all too easy to let himself fall back into this rhythm, this mindless, beautiful thing that they have together.

She pulls away from him, slowly, her eyelids low and sleepy as if they are in a dream. "I thought I remembered what that felt like," she says, "but I didn't."

Peter smiles the barest of smiles. There is always a consequence, and they have reached it now. He breathes in, shifting his attention to his feet, and feels her deflate next to him and pull the rest of her body away, so nothing touches anymore.

"So," she says.

Peter purses his lips, gnashing his teeth between them.

"So next week—when I see you at school …"

He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. He tries again and then shakes his head.

"Peter," she protests, her voice barely above a whisper.

He needs to say something to her, so he settles on, "I'll always be there when you need me."

Her response is heart-wrenching but frank. "There isn't a single moment I don't need you. I always will."

There is no more kissing after that; there isn't even a good-bye. He leaves her room wordlessly, feeling her eyes on him every step of the way. He turns to look at her before he shuts the window behind him. She stares at him through the glass.

There are sirens in the distance. She looks away before he even releases the biocable; by the time he gains the momentum to swing away, she has turned her back on him and righted her chair at her desk, making it as if he was never even there.

* * *

Peter doesn't see his father for three days after that. When he does, his father is standing outside of Midtown Science at four o'clock in the afternoon on a Monday, looking stiff and out of place leaning against a bench. Peter has to look for a long time to make sure that it's him.

"What are you doing here?" Peter asks. His father doesn't answer. The sunglasses are secured on the bridge of his nose. "You're leaving, aren't you."

"You know I can't stay."

Peter's throat is tight. He doesn't want to do this here. He barely pays attention to any of his classmates but that doesn't make this any less brutal and public.

"No, I don't," he says lowly, "I never know anything with you." He is still a few feet too far away from his father, not quite committed to engaging in this conversation. He watches the man flounder for a moment. "I don't understand why you're leaving. I don't understand why you ever left in the first place."

"It wasn't leaving—_this_ isn't leaving, it simply isn't a choice."

"No," says Peter, "you're leaving me here, the same way you left eleven years ago—leaving me to try and make sense out of whatever it was you did, whatever you did to _me_. Why do you get to leave? Why am I the one left with the consequences?"

Only when his father speaks again, much quieter and calmer than Peter, does Peter realize he was raising his voice. "I regret your involvement in this. I am a man with my fair share of regrets, Peter, but that is the one that weighs on me most."

Peter snorts unkindly. "Oh, good. You regret it. That's helpful."

His father turns his head slightly to the side and says, "I can't stay here. I am glad to have gotten to know you, I am proud—" He looks at Peter for a moment, almost for permission to continue, and Peter begrudgingly lets him go on. "I'm proud of you. I never meant for this to happen, and not many people your age would handle this even half as well as you have." He looks at Peter, his eyes still hidden behind dark shades. "But my presence here would only put you in danger, more danger than you are already in. I need to disappear again."

"You could have told me you were alive," says Peter, trying not to choke on the words. "Every day I thought of you. Every day I grew up—thinking you were some kind of hero."

"If you had known I was alive—"

"Uncle Ben—when I was growing up, he would—he would tell me about you. How you were brave, and intelligent, and thought that if you were in a position to help someone—_anyone—_then it was your responsibility, your moral obligation to help them." He resists the obvious jab, asking his father where he was when Peter needed his help all these years. He grits his teeth and tries to swallow his rage because he wants to be coherent for this, he wants his father to fully and completely understand the devastation of the last week, wants him to remember this in the next eleven years or more he will miss. "I grew up—living, eating, breathing these words about—about a man who isn't even _real_."

As soon as Peter finishes he feels an unbelievable ache in his chest for Uncle Ben. It suddenly feels as if he is on his bike again as a kid, flying down that hill, out of control, but this time there are no handlebars and he is certain he's going to crash. Uncle Ben would make sense of this. Uncle Ben would know what to say, what to do.

Uncle Ben would have been able to make his father stay. Peter isn't worth staying for.

"I can't be that man anymore," his father says quietly. "The consequences … after I lost your mother …"

"You may have lost her," Peter says, denying himself any sympathy for the man, "but I was _here_. This whole time I've been here. You didn't lose _me_."

His father looks up at him slowly. "Haven't I?"

Peter stares back, forcing his face to stay neutral, but he can feel his lower lip shaking and no amount of biting it down seems to help. "Fine," he says tersely. "Be a coward. But if you're going to leave like this—please. Don't come back."

His father takes in a breath. "I'm not leaving forever, Peter. I'll be around."

"I don't _want_ you to be," Peter seethes. "Just _leave_ this time and stay gone. I don't need you, I never did."

"You're going to," his father says, sadly. "You were right. There are questions you won't be able to answer, and battles you haven't even imagined yet. And I'll be watching when I can, and I'll be here. When you need me."

This is so startlingly similar to the very words he used with Gwen just a few nights before that Peter almost reels back. They aren't nice words. They aren't words he wants to hear. He cringes, thinking of Gwen, how it must have taken every fiber of her being not to scream at him when he used them on her.

If Gwen can grant him enough forgiveness to allow him to live at arm's length from her, he should be able to give it to his father. But he can't.

"You told Uncle Ben about all of this, didn't you?" Peter asks instead.

His father nods. "I didn't believe these abilities would ever manifest, but if they did, I never intended for you to go through this alone."

It is all Peter knows now, this feeling of being alone. He is losing everybody. His uncle is dead, Gwen is an impossibility, and even Aunt May he has to keep as dissociated from him as he can when he finally graduates and can leave her safely in Queens. He tells himself he doesn't need anybody, but only because it's an easy thought to think.

His father hands him a piece of paper. "You're the only one who has this number."

Peter holds it in his palm, staring at the neat scrawl. He folds it carefully and puts it into his backpack, but he thinks bitterly it wouldn't make a difference if he marched it over to the trash can right now. He will never call.

A crowd of students emerges from one of the sports teams, presumably being let out from practice. The noise and clamor is enough to bring the two of them back to the present. Peter stares at his father, waiting. He won't be the one who says good-bye.

His father steps forward and puts a hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter does him the one service of not pulling away.

"Be good."

* * *

One more chapter left. I may have just purchased another pair of Gwen Stacy boots, this time in black. It's like a zillion degrees here, I will not be able to wear them for months, but I am beyond reason and common sense now. All. I know. Is boots. (And Andrew Garfield).

Thank you guys so much for the reviews over the past month or so. This was really not meant to blow so far out of proportion, it was only going to be like a four or five chapter fic (WOOPS), but I really appreciate people who have reviewed, especially the ones who have been reviewing since the beginning. I feel like I know you all a little bit now, it's weird that this will end tomorrow, it feels like leaving summer camp or something. If I were cool enough for summer camp, because let's be real, I was a space camp kid.

This, of course, surprises exactly no one.


	36. Chapter 36

**Lying Heart**

* * *

Epilogue

Senior year ends. Gwen is valedictorian. She gives an eloquent speech at graduation that Peter doesn't listen to. He stares at his lap, trying to focus on anything but the sound of her voice, the way it kind of gravels at the beginning and end of her sentences, the distinctive rhythm of her words.

Instead he stares at the banner at the other end of the gymnasium, the one that lists all the universities the students in their class are attending, with stars underneath them to indicate how many people are going. There is one under Yale. It should be Gwen, Peter thinks, but he knows that it's Richard. There are plenty under NYU, a few under Columbia and other schools in New York, but the rest seem scattered throughout the nation. Peter can't really blame his classmates for wanting to get the hell out of Manhattan.

There are seventeen stars under Empire State. Peter is one of them. Much to his frustration, so is Gwen.

"… the class of 2013!"

Gwen finishes her speech with a flourish and everyone is up and clapping. Peter drags himself up to his feet and mechanically follows suit.

She walks down from the podium as everyone starts shifting in the aisles, waiting to line up and walk on stage one by one for their diplomas. On the other side of the room Aunt May is waiting with a camera; in Peter's pocket his cell phone is practically burning a hole in his side, heavy with the weight of an unexpected voicemail he doesn't want think about.

_Listen, Peter. I know I'm the last person you want to hear from right now._

He blinks, focusing on the stage. His row hasn't been summoned to stand up and wait yet. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Gwen shuffling through the row behind him, with the other people with "S" last names.

They haven't spoken much since that night in her room, after Peter recovered from the last robot attack. They say hello to each other politely in class. They talk about homework, about the weather, about the school basketball team's unexpected success, but they don't talk about anything with real substance, and they don't talk for very long.

He misses her. The ache in his chest, he thought it might subside with time, but it hasn't. Every time he sees her it's like reopening a wound. He wants so much from her that he can't take.

These days it seems like she wants nothing from him. She is cool and relaxed and hardly ever says anything with the bitter edge in her voice that she used to use, back when he first started avoiding her last October. It almost disappoints Peter. He wants her to be angry. As long as she is angry, she hasn't moved on.

His row stands up and walks in an orderly fashion to the stage. They've rehearsed this a few times but everyone is stumbling with nervous energy, giving each other anxious, toothy grins as they come closer and closer to leaving this place forever.

Peter hears them call his name. He nods at the school principal and takes his diploma. At the last second he remembers to smile in the general direction of where Aunt May and her camera are sitting.

He still hasn't managed to edge his way back into his row by the time Gwen's name is called, but he turns around anyway, accidentally bumping into someone walking behind him in the process. She looks up at him for a fraction of a second as she takes the diploma, then quickly looks back down at her feet.

_But I see what you're going through, and—I know you said you didn't want my help, so you can take this or leave it, but you might come to find that I'm the only one who understands. _

Peter didn't get the scholarship that would have paid for school. It went to some girl in Rhode Island. But he still gets into the academic program, and still gets financial aid, and with the new freelancing job at the Daily Bugle that is becoming both the highlight of his days and the bane of his existence, Peter is reasonably certain he can afford to go to school and feed himself at the same time.

Aunt May's hug is almost suffocating. A part of him is starting to think she wasn't counting on him making it this far. With all of Spiderman's close calls over the past few months, he can't really blame her.

They settle on a diner for an early dinner, a few blocks away from the school.

"Our last dinner together," says Aunt May wistfully.

Peter tries to smile. "I'm only half an hour away," he protests.

She nods, swirling the gravy on her plate with her fork. "Don't be a stranger."

By the time they get home some of the heat has mercifully radiated off the sidewalks. There's a slight chill in the air, probably the last of the season. Peter savors the walk home from the subway with his aunt, listening to her as closely as he can, laughing and smiling or frowning at the appropriate points in her stories. There's something about this night, about it being the last of its kind, that makes him want to focus on everything, which makes him unable to focus on anything at all.

Except the voicemail. Peter jams the key into the front door and twists, directing his energy on everything and anything else, but it doesn't make it any easier to push aside.

_This girl—this Gwen—I can tell that you love her. The way I loved your mother. _

There aren't as many boxes as Peter thought there would be. He's leaving a lot of things behind. Walking through his old house, trying to determine what he will take with him, is the first time he has really had some perspective on how much of himself he has left here in the past eleven years—a skid mark on the wall where he rammed his first skateboard, an ugly hand-woven oven mitt from second grade, the remaining evidence from the bathroom he near obliterated after his abilities first developed. There are traces of him everywhere. It is unbelievable to him, looking back, how openly and wholeheartedly his aunt and uncle treated him as if he belonged here from the very first day.

It's only one taxi ride across a bridge, but Peter hugs Aunt May before he leaves for a long time. She strokes the back of his hair, treats him for a moment like he is eight and not eighteen, and tells him to call her when he gets settled into the apartment. She asks again if he needs help and he shakes his head. He doesn't want her going there, not ever. He doesn't want her associated with anything that might be associated with him.

He shoves the boxes into the taxi and checks his pocket to make sure he still has cash to pay the driver. Peter is embarrassed by how much cash he has lying around these days, ever since the freelance job took off. It isn't enough to completely pay for school but it's enough to make him think twice about where he leaves it.

Aunt May waves from the door as the taxi pulls away. He knew that she would, so he is careful to turn around as they're leaving and wave back. He imagines Uncle Ben standing there with her, and imagines that it would be much easier to leave her if he was.

_At some point you're going to have to decide how much you love her. Either you love her enough to let her go—or you love her so much that you let her decide the risk she wants to take._

"I'll just, uh—do you mind waiting? I have to make a few trips to get these boxes up," says Peter apologetically to the taxi driver.

The man points. "Meter still running."

Peter nods in understanding, grabbing the first two boxes and running them up the six flights to his tiny, bare, ugly apartment. It is completely uninhabitable, his Aunt May would say if she saw it, but he doesn't plan on spending much time here except to sleep every now and then.

He stands there in the apartment for a moment. If he lies down on the floor he thinks he could touch his head to one wall and his feet to the other. The window looks out to two or so feet between his building and the brick wall of its neighbor. It's barely enough for him to crawl through at a moment's notice, but he has easy access to the roof here, so he'll make do.

He runs back down the stairs to collect his other boxes. He goes for three at once, paying the driver and balancing them precariously as he walks all the way up again. He sets two of them down at the door so he can place the box full of plates and glasses and silverware down carefully in the kitchen, then heads back out to the hallway to collect them.

At first all he sees is a blonde head poking out of the apartment across the hall.

_Your mother … I will never forgive myself for what happened to her. But I wouldn't give back those years with her—those years we were in love, when we had you—not for anything._

It is laughable. It is maddening. It isn't possible. What would Gwen Stacy be doing in an apartment building as grimy and cheap as this?

She looks at the telltale boxes in his arms and offers him the barest of smirks. "Howdy, neighbor."

He feels like there is something lodged in his throat. "Uh. Hey," he says weakly.

She walks down the hallway and leaves through the stairs, her short skirt lifting dangerously with the breeze created by the opening door. He doesn't know where she is going. He doesn't bother to ask. But he knows with a nauseating and thrilling certainty that she will be back.

He shuts the door to his apartment behind him, his stomach sinking, his heart flying. He will never escape her. She is his blessing and his curse.

This is going to be a long four years.

* * *

I may ... or may not ... be writing a sequel.

I told myself I wouldn't. I TOLD MYSELF I WOULDN'T. But I just sort of started writing one (woops). If I get a lot of it done before school starts, I'll post it. In any case, I'm going underground for two weeks. I have that singing competition to get ready for and my family is going on vacation to Alaska and at some point I'm getting all my wisdom teeth removed (ALL OF THEM! GASP!). So if it's any good, you'll see it in the next few weeks, and if you don't see it, well. I probably deleted it all in a violent rage. What I can say is it would be set at Empire State, and it would be from Gwen's perspective this time around.

Thank you again to everybody who has humored me and my writings over the last month. This has been the weirdest, dorkiest, most awesome summer of my life.


End file.
